


Elephant in the Room Makes Three

by Annie D (scaramouche)



Series: Not Part of the Plan [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Arranged Marriage, Castiel POV, Culture Shock, Domestic, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Forced domesticity, Getting to Know Each Other, Honeymoon, M/M, Misunderstandings, Public Display of Affection, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Royalty, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 08:56:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 49,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaramouche/pseuds/Annie%20D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As in all royal arranged marriages, Castiel and his new husband are supposed to use the honeymoon period to get to know each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Castiel considers giving Dean another five minutes, then decides against it. “Dean.” He carefully reaches over and touches his shoulder. “Dean?”

Dean snorts and jolts awake, blinking dazedly until he regains his bearings and remembers that they’re in their private bus, making their merry way to the location of their obligatory honeymoon. The novelty of the custom bus with its bolted-down furniture and mini-bar had lasted for only so long, and Castiel had thought it best to let Dean make full use of the leather seats he’d earlier been petting in intense appreciation.

There’s a faint squeaking sound when Dean unpeels his face from the seat and squints at Castiel. “What?”

“We’re almost there.” Castiel points out the tinted windows, to where the arch leading into the estate is drawing closer. “I thought you might want to see.”

“We passed the town already? Dammit.”

“Oh, I thought—”

“S’okay, it’s just been a while since I’ve been here is all.” Dean scrubs his eyes and sits up, humming a thank you when Castiel passes him a bottle of water. “So where’s this fancy Joshua House of yours?”

“Shouldn’t you be telling me that?” Castiel shakes his head when Dean snorts at him. “You’ve actually been in this county before.”

“Not up the hill. That was off-limits, even for us.” Dean cranes his neck, whistling softly when he sees the view. Castiel agrees with the sentiment and draws up to Dean’s side, both of them watching the arch move over their heads, and then drink in the rolling grounds of Ilchester Hill, with its beautiful slopes and greenery all the way down to the thicket that mark the borders of the estate. Beyond that is the blue of the ocean all the way to the horizon; Castiel’s heard that on a clear day, one can see the southern-most islands of the kingdom.

“Was this county named after your ancestors?” Castiel asks.

“Is it? Oh, I don’t know, never heard anything like that.” Dean sounds distant, understandably distracted by the picturesque view. “The whole area’s changed hands so many times it’s hard to know for sure anyway. Oh geez, is that the house?”

“Does it look daunting?” Castiel can see the main house now, with its dark walls and dramatic mansard roof. Three floors makes it positively cozy by Michael’s standards. “Too old-fashioned?”

“No, it’s uh... it’s very _Psycho_.” Dean laughs when he catches Castiel’s blank expression. “Big, quiet house on top of a hill? Could give someone the heebie-jeebies.”

“In the old days the royal married couples would spend their honeymoon on a ship,” Castiel tells him. “They would stay within rowing distance of shore, but the intention was that they would be literally disconnected from land so to not be distracted from... each other.”

Dean snorts. “And you wonder why your people are famous for being anti-social.”

“I do not _wonder_. Regardless, I would say a heebie-jeebie house is an improvement.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Rachel would probably know the full history of Joshua House – when it was made, its various refurbishments, how the Crown managed to keep control of it even when Michael lost the whole coast to the Republic years ago. Ilchester is one of those strategic locations that keeps changing hands through the tides of war, and Castiel figures that this is the reason Michael picked Joshua House as the location for their honeymoon. It’s one of the last royal properties left on Republic land – even Dean had laughed when he learned about that.

“I guess the Council figured they’d save money this way,” Dean had chortled. “No point spending it on little old me.”

Up close, the house’s age is obvious. Some effort was made to clean it up and make it presentable, but there’s no painting over an old-fashioned relic. Dean mutters something about sleeping in a museum, and Castiel doesn’t disagree.

Rachel and Virgil are waiting for them when they step down from the bus, both of them still in their smart suits and making Castiel feel more disheveled than usual.

“Welcome to Joshua House,” Rachel says. “Would you like a tour, or do you wish to freshen up?”

Castiel turns to Dean. “Freshen up?” Dean doesn’t answer, too busy gawping at the windows or not awake enough to muster a reply, so Castiel says to Rachel, “I think we’ll take it easy for the rest of the day. Dean and I will look around the house ourselves. Are our things unloaded?”

“Yes, they’re in your rooms,” Rachel says. “Still in their cases, as requested.”

“Good, thank you, you’re dismissed.” Castiel nods when Rachel and Virgil bow and step back. “Dean?”

Dean starts. “What? Oh. Um.” He laughs a little, conscious of Rachel and Virgil’s watching them, and then offers Castiel his hand. “Hey.”

“Hello.” Castiel slips his hand into Dean’s. They only have an audience of two but it's symbolic to enter their first home this way, no matter that it’s only a temporary one. They step forward together, Dean opening the door latch and pushing to let them in.

The door’s hinges have been oiled so there’s no ominous creaking, but they’re greeted by the stale, unlived-in air of a house long left empty. A winding double-staircase looms over the foyer, Michael’s coat of arms in full color set into the wall.

“That’s Michael’s herald,” Castiel tells Dean as they start walking. He might as well start now, after all. “The tree on the top left is the badge of his mother, who’s my third cousin twice removed, so I have that symbol in my badge as well. Joshua House, by the way, should be named after one of the Kings Joshua, though I’m not sure which one. This should be the receiving room, and that’s a sitting room… Come, let’s see.”

Dean follows Castiel from room to room, nodding or murmuring an acknowledgement while Castiel keeps up his commentary. It’s easy enough to identify the later additions to the ancient house – grand dining room and sitting rooms are of a vastly different feel from the private, modern kitchen that connects to a cozy little television room.

“We have a cook, but they won’t be using this kitchen, which is for our personal use,” Castiel says. The various cabinets and drawers in their private kitchen are stocked, and the fridge door has a notepad for requests. “I haven’t met our cook but Rachel told me it’s a local person, so you should be able to request meals to your liking. Rachel will handle the stocking up and shopping, just leave a note for her if you would like her to get something for you. I’ll have to check the times, but I think the cleaners will make their rounds twice a day unless we request otherwise.”

“And they’re all staying in the, uh…”

“In the adjoining building, yes. We should be able to use the intercom from anywhere in the house if we need anything.”

Castiel may not have been here before but these kinds of houses tend to be predictable in their design. After they’ve canvassed the ground floor they move up to the first floor, where they find a study, a small sitting room, a bedroom that hasn’t been done up, and at the far end of a hallway, a grand bedroom that’s been set up for a guest of honor.

“Here we go,” Castiel says, pushing the door wide open for Dean. “This is your room.”

“Cool.” Dean moves past Castiel into the room, making a sound of relief when he sees his bags at the foot of the bed – familiar things in an unfamiliar place, et cetera. “How ‘bout you?”

“My room should be directly above yours.” Castiel points at a small, slightly hidden door at the far corner. “That should be the private staircase linking our rooms. Don’t worry, Dean, this is your space, I won’t encroach it.”

“Ah,” Dean says.

“You can lock both doors, if you wish.” Everything here appears to be in order, from the comfortable-looking bed to the fat wardrobe, to the reading corner near the windows with an excellent view of the gardens. There’s no television, though, which means that Dean will have to use the TV room downstairs. “What would you like for dinner?”

Dean weaves over to the bed. His back is to Castiel so his expression is hidden, though Castiel thinks there’s something to be read in the curve of his shoulders and the way he plucks the edge of the bedsheet.

“Dean,” Castiel says carefully. “Dinner?”

“I, uh…” Dean rubs his temples. “I can’t really think right now.”

“All right, I’ll arrange dinner. Shall I make the plans for our lessons as well?”

“Lessons?”

“For your visit to court. I can cover the basics on the culture, protocols, history of my family. I won’t make it strenuous, of course, and we’ll move at your own pace.” Dean’s still just standing there, though, unmoving and staring at the wall. “This month is _our_ time, Dean, before we will be called on to perform. I’m sure there are some petty distractions to be had around here.”

“Don’t suppose you have cable?” Dean hedges.

“I can find out,” Castiel says. “Would you like to unpack and have a shower?”

“Okay.”

“Do you know how to find me if you need anything?”

“Intercom, right, yeah.”

Castiel hovers there for a moment, unsure if Dean’s lack of movement is an invitation to distract him, or a hint for him to leave. Dean should be exhausted – Castiel certainly feels exhausted, and would very much enjoy a soak for an hour or so. It feels like they’re still _on_ , that the energetic public dance that was their wedding and reception and photograph sessions hasn’t really stopped. Thank goodness for this month of a breather, at least.

“I’m going to my rooms now,” Castiel says. “I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

Dean nods. “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

Castiel knew that things were going to be different once they got out of the city, away from the noise and the hectic schedule and Naomi scrutinizing every move they made. The schedule is theirs now, even if only for a little while, and they should take advantage of it while they can. Castiel also knows that his priorities are not Dean’s priorities, so if Dean is a little quiet during dinner and non-committal when Castiel suggests an agenda for the week, it’s not like Castiel’s going to mind.

In fact Castiel fully expects Dean to sleep in the next morning. Castiel gets up around dawn, for there are some habits that refuse to go away, and is thus surprised when, just as he’s digging in to his second helping of pancakes, Dean ambles into the kitchen. He’s wearing his robe, bare calves visible beneath the hem, but his hair is combed down, denying Castiel the pleasure of Dean’s bedhead.

Last night they’d decided that there’s no point in using the dining room – it’s too formal, the long table too ridiculous. Their private kitchen has a perfectly serviceable island, which had done them well at dinner and would probably do well for the rest of their stay here.

“That is a long fucking walk from bedroom to breakfast.” Dean drops into the chair opposite Castiel. “I’m just sayin’.”

“In traditional houses the royal bedroom is connected directly to a small chamber for personal meals,” Castiel says, “Though I suppose that made it a challenge for the servants to deliver all the food up so many flights of stairs. Did you sleep well? Is the room acceptable?”

“Yeah.” Dean peers at Castiel’s plate. “Michael pulled out all the stops.”

“Did I wake you up? It’s a large house, I didn’t think sound traveled.”

“Nah, it was just... You know what it’s like, sleeping in a strange bed.”

“Yes.” Castiel watches Dean get up and poke around the kitchen, discovering the bacon and sausages in the oven, the eggs lined up near the stove, the bread next to the toaster. Dean nods solemnly to himself as he fills his plate, apparently content to judge if the food meets his standards.

Perhaps they should just not do anything for the first week or so. Dean can relax and enjoy the Crown’s complimentary luxuries, and Castiel can explore the grounds. Castiel can almost think of this as a holiday long deserved. Not that he’d ever needed a holiday back at the University.

“I have a thought,” Castiel says. “Maybe we can relax for the first few days. There’s no rush.”

“Nah, let’s just get down to it.” Dean makes an appreciative sound when he bites into his sandwich. “I get antsy when I got nothing to do.”

“Oh,” Castiel says, surprised. “If you’re sure?”

“Yeah, better to focus on the job, right? Do I need to dress up? I wasn’t sure if I had to, um…” Dean’s smile is a little sheepish, and Castiel suddenly understands why his hair is so neat.

“Oh.” Castiel fails to suppress his huff of laughter, and Dean eyeballs him warily. “Well, there’s only you and me here. And I doubt that the staff cares how you dress.” He gestures at his own choice of clothing, the sweater and slacks that still smell of his apartment. “This is my casualwear.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You dress like that for fun?”

“It’s comfortable,” Castiel says defensively. “And if I don’t dress for my own comfort when I am able to, then what’s the point?”

“Fair enough.”

“Not all of us are as effortlessly handsome as you.” Castiel shakes his head behind his coffee cup, sipping the warm liquid while Dean blinks rapidly at his breakfast plate. “Oh, you didn’t get a chance to see – there’s a gym on the second floor, if that’s of interest to you. I didn’t try any of the equipment myself, but it appears to be in order.”

Dean nods distractedly at his sandwich. He’s not frowning, not in the way that has set Castiel on edge in the past, but Castiel still has the feeling that he’s missed something. Castiel needs to pay better attention.

“So,” Dean says. “What’re we gonna do today?”

  


* * *

 

Over the day, Castiel discovers that Dean is an apt student. Castiel doesn’t know why this is a surprise, only that it is, and there’s none of the whining and grumbling that Castiel had witnessed of him before the wedding. The change between now and then, Castiel supposes, is that the deed is done and Dean’s making the most of his new role. It also helps that their prep teams are no longer around to boss them mercilessly, and Dean knows there’s no point taking out his frustration on the only other person who understands his situation first-hand.

They take it easy, though. After Dean changes into his casualwear they start another sweep of the house, this time with Castiel settling into the rhythms of a lecture, albeit it one where he’s married to his only student.

Every corner and every room of the house has something for their use in learning. They study the maps in the receiving room, Castiel showing him the various power bases across the kingdom, the county of Hortus that Michael gave Castiel as his dowry, the route that Castiel traveled with Anna when they left Michael’s court in pursuit of young adventure.

They explore the small library, Castiel pointing out a few classics by their more famous writers. Dean shows off his rudimentary Latin and Enochian, and shares his strong opinions on the few books of fiction that Rachel (or someone else) decided to stock the shelves with.

They have lunch in the garden’s gazebo, making small talk with their cook, Elizabeth, who comes out to personally serve them and enjoy Dean’s praise for her culinary skills.

They walk in the long gallery, studying the few portraits hung there for their benefit. Michael’s portrait is the largest, of course, and features the King standing in the center, framed by imagery of Acreage Castle, the Wall and a thunderstorm over a raging sea. Dean and Castiel share a moment of silence as they gaze up at the painting, because it is indeed a lot to take in at once.

“Good chin,” Dean says at last.

“Does that matter?” Castiel asks.

“Not really, but it makes your money interesting to look at.”

“Your face would be more pleasing on currency,” Castiel says.

“What—don’t— _no_.” There are no windows in the long gallery, but even in the dull light of the old bulbs Castiel’s able to make out the flush moving up Dean’s neck. “Didn’t you say your family tree’s in here somewhere?”

“Ah, yes.” There’s a small table underneath the painting, with a slightly-hidden drawer set into the design. Castiel opens it, revealing a fresh set of tapers inside. “This may be a cliché, but it’s one Michael is fond of.”

“Figures.” Dean watches Castiel set the taper in a holder. “That a unicorn candle?”

“Yes.” Castiel flicks his thumb across the wick, a flame bursting to life at his touch. Soft blue light fills the gallery, lighting up the dark red wallpaper of the long walls. All the portraits are hung on only one side of the gallery, and for good reason.

On the other wall, the bare wall, the paper shimmers and slowly erupts with silver lines and letters.

“Dude.” Dean takes a slow step forward. “What in the fucking Greek pantheon.”

“Dean,” Castiel chides.

It’s not that his family tree has a huge number of members; it’s that the networks between its members are complicated. Practically everyone is related to everyone else, sometimes by two or three paths, and a visual representation of that has been woven into the walls of the long gallery. Castiel passes the candle to Dean, who turns it slowly to watch the branches twist to reveal new angles and linkages.

“Hey, there you are.” Dean has a good eye, spotting Castiel’s name on an eastern branch. He follows the lineage with a finger, double-taking when he traces a loop. “Wait, you’re related to Michael through both your parents’ sides?”

“Yes.”

“What, are there like not enough normal people in your kingdom that you keep intermarrying?”

“Don’t think of it as intermarrying,” Castiel says. “Think of it as keeping your enemies close.”

“Oh.” Dean’s mouth fall open a little, and he stares up at the grand family tree with new appreciation. “ _Damn_ , son.”

“This is the Crown’s way of making sure that those in power are vested in making sure the kingdom keeps running the way it always has. Every time someone close to throne married an outsider there’s been… Well, there are very good reasons we’re known for being xenophobic.”

“Yet here you are.” Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You got married off to a schlub like me.”

“I’m married to a member of a noble House,” Castiel says firmly. “As part of an arrangement that has opened up new trade routes and agreements between our countries because – following the same principle as the intermarrying – we are now family. We are now invested in each other’s well-being.”

“I can tell you that _we_ don’t look it that way.” Dean draws in close to the wallpaper, tracing the lines with his fingers. “It’s about trading routes and getting help pushing the raiders back along the border. It's just business.”

“Is there that much difference between the two?”

Dean turns, giving Castiel a look that’s not quite identifiable in the flickering blue light. “There should be.” He starts, suddenly pulling his hand back in horror. “Cas, Cas, I think I did something.”

“What?” Castiel peers at the place Dean had just been touching. “I doubt you could’ve ruined the tapestry with a fingernail.”

“Just make sure, will ya?”

Castiel strokes the paper but everything seems to be in order, Uriel’s name in its perfect calligraphy woven above the branch that leads across to Castiel and Anna. Still Dean fidgets, watching Castiel with the nervous expectation of a young boy caught in front of a broken window. It’s such a strange thing to see, especially when Dean pokes at him quickly, “Dude, talk to me” with such anxiousness.

“Dean, it’s fine,” Castiel says. “Even if you did tear it, it’s easily fixable.”

Dean shoves his hands into his pockets, still unhappy despite Castiel’s assurance. “This whole damn house, man, I tell you.”

“Are you self-conscious? About the house? Dean, I can promise you that Michael considers the whole place a write-off, he won’t care what we choose to or accidentally do to the place. In fact, I’d say that he’s prepared for the worse.”

Dean snorts. “Must be nice, being loaded like that.”

“Look.” Castiel takes Dean’s forearm, squeezing gently to make him stop bouncing his heels. He gestures up at the family tree. “This is Michael’s family. In-fighting is as ingrained to our history as the intermarrying. It’s nothing for castles, manors, estates to change hands once, twice, three times a generation when the power shifts. It’s very nice of you to try and respect this property, but it’s respect that Michael doesn’t deserve.”

“I’m not thinking about _Michael_ ,” Dean says. “I’m a guest here, Cas. Maybe you’re used to fancy digs, but I’m not. I don’t care who the owner is. It’s a nice place, and the history here is… I just don’t want to break anything, okay?”

Castiel finds himself smiling. “That’s considerate of you.”

“Shut up,” Dean mutters.

“Do you know, you looked so smart in your dress uniform that I’d almost forgotten that’s not who you are?” Castiel shakes his head, amused at himself. “Of course, whenever you open your mouth I remember again.”

“That I’m a nobody?”

“That you’re a wild card Michael probably doesn’t know how to deal with and I am grateful for.”

Dean falls silent at that, turning away to study the family tree again. He peers at Castiel’s name, the ‘C’ looped dramatically as a guardian over the rest of the letters. Right next to it there’s an empty space hovering in readiness, not yet filled with Dean’s name.

“What about you, Dean?” Castiel says. “What about your family?”

Dean shrugs. “You know ‘bout my family. We definitely don’t have all – all _this_.” He waves at the tree, this time careful not to touch the paper. “I mean, the Campbells are pretty epic but we’re not tight with them. Same goes with the other Winchesters, I don’t think I’ve met the others more than a handful of times.”

“So your immediate family unit is… an island?” Castiel ventures.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?” Dean slants a look at him, smirking. “You know what hunters are like. All the stories are true, I’m afraid.”

“I see…” Castiel trails off, but Dean’s already gone back to studying the tree, although now he has his hands firmly behind his back. He nods when he finds names that he knows, and going _ack_ when he finds some of the more circular intermarrying between close cousins.

Once again Castiel is struck by how hard Dean is trying. He doesn’t have to, and goodness knows Castiel knows plenty of people who wouldn’t bother if they were in his place. But Dean is focused and intelligent and sorely misused, and if Castiel knew some way to make him, _at very least_ , feel better and at ease in this place, then Castiel would turn to it immediately.

Actually, there is something. “Let’s go out,” Castiel says.

Dean scowls. “What?”

“Let’s go into town. I’ve never been, but you have. You can show it to me.”

“Into town?” Dean echoes. “Is that… are we allowed to do that?”

“Yes.”

The corners of Dean’s mouth quirk. “Did you just make that up, Cas?”

“No,” Castiel says. “Yes.”

 

* * *

 

Rachel isn’t happy, but it’s her job to be unhappy whenever either one of them gets a non-Crown-sanctioned idea in their heads. Castiel and Dean find her over at the staff house and relay their request, to which she sighs, checks her organizer, and then says reluctantly, “You can go, but Virgil and I must go with you.”

“Why would—” Dean starts, but he snaps his mouth shut when Castiel lays a hand on his arm.

“You may observe,” Castiel tells Rachel, “but that is all.”

“We got a chaperone?” Dean says. “Really?”

Virgil, who’s been listening in to the conversation from a polite distance, chimes up with, “Bodyguard, sir.”

Dean grumbles, but said grumbling only lasts until he discovers that the Crown has furnished them with private transportation, sitting ready and waiting for their use in the garage. When Dean sees the vehicle he makes a sound not unlike an asthmatic on the verge of drowning, though to Castiel’s uneducated eyes it’s merely a car.

“What do you mean, ‘it’s just a car’,” Dean says incredulously. “This is a ’54 Fallon, they only made something like a dozen of these and why does Michael even have one? I thought you guys didn’t like our stuff.”

“Oh, no,” Castiel says, while over Dean’s shoulder he sees Virgil frown a little at Dean’s comment on his king, “I think you’ll find that Michael has tremendous appreciation for Republic ingenuity and engineering.” He can’t help adding, “It _is_ just a car, Dean.”

“Yeah, and I’m just a good-looking son-of-a-bitch. Get in, Cas. I’m driving.”

“No, sir, I must drive you,” Virgil says. “It would be inappropriate otherwise.”

“Dean will drive,” Castiel says firmly. “Virgil, you will sit in the back with Rachel.”

“What?” Virgil glances at Rachel for support, but she just shrugs neutrally.

“Please give the keys to Dean.” Castiel nods when Virgil reluctantly hands the keys over, and Dean whoops in jubilation. “Good.”

Dean moves past Castiel towards the driver’s door, along the way shoving Castiel’s shoulder and whispering, “You’re such an asshole, Cas.”

He may be correct, but Dean’s asshole of a husband has successfully brokered a trip for them into the town of Ilchester. They would have had to go down there sooner or later to make a public appearance, and it might as well be sooner. It’s a beautiful day for it, too, the sky clear and blue when they exit the garage and leave the house behind.

Dean has terrible driving posture, hands asymmetrical on the wheel and his shoulder almost pressing against the door in some kind of pin-up pose that is apparently natural to his person. With the windows down the wind is pleasing and fills the car with the scent of pine and leaves of the hill’s forest. Dean’s grin is wide, so he must approve. “Do you drive, Cas?” he asks.

“I have a license.” Castiel closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He can almost imagine he’s back in the kingdom, though the trees here are thicker and damper. “It’s been a while, though. I don’t have my own vehicle.”

“I have a…” Dean shakes his head briefly as though distracted, but that can’t be right because the road is clear and the gates wide open to let them out and down the hill. “I have a ’67 Impala, back in St. Lebanon. Smaller than the Fallon but sweeter engine, purrs like an animal.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Hell yeah,” Dean laughs. There’s no obvious joke here but Castiel finds himself smiling as well, Dean’s excitement contagious. “Jesus, this is a sweet car, you shouldn’t be locking her up like that.”

“You may take her around as you wish.” Castiel glances over his shoulder to the back seat, where Virgil is tight-lipped and trying not to look disapproving, but Rachel nods in assent. “I’m sure you’ll be doing her a favor.”

Dean doesn’t hesitate when they reach the first junction, apparently familiar enough with the area that he knows the turns to take to lead them down into civilization. Soon enough the trees give way to open fields dotted with the occasional house and barn, and a handful of minutes later the town itself.

“Heyyy,” Dean says excitedly, “it’s still here!” It doesn’t take much urging for Dean to explain that he’d been posted here a handful of years ago, on one his many assignments from the Council in maintaining the peace. Dean’s commentary is less a natural flow of explanation and more a distracted bounce from topic to topic of interest to him – a funny sign-post here, an alley of a memorable bar fight he’d gotten into once there – that he’s just lucky that Castiel can keep up.

“You can see the fortress from here.” Dean jerks his head eastwards, where the tips of the old defensive structure are visible over the rooftops of the foreground buildings. “Perfect view for monitoring the sea line during kraken migration season.”

“That must’ve been exciting,” Castiel says.

“Not really. Prefer solid ground beneath my feet.”

Castiel starts in surprise. “You had to sail out to manage to kraken? Personally?”

“I’m a hands-on kind of guy, what can I say.” This appears to be a matter of pride to Dean, who slants a self-assured smirk at Castiel. “Beats hanging around a library all day.”

“I wouldn’t know, I’m too busy blowing things up.”

Dean double-takes. “Wait, what?”

“I’m a professional alchemist, Dean.” Castiel rolls his eyes at Dean’s expression. “Who do you think creates the spells and potions you use in your work?”

“The Men of Letters.”

“A mere Continental off-shoot of our Alchemist’s Guild. It’s practically the same thing.”

“Well,” Dean sputters, “ _we_ have the cooler name.”

“No you do not, that name is pretentious and gender specific for no reason whatsoever.”

“Oh my god you sound like Sam.”

“That should concern you, as you’ve ended up _marrying_ me.”

Dean glances over at him, eyes wide and startled, and then he bursts out laughing. Castiel resists for all of two seconds, and then he’s laughing as well, albeit not as loud and heartily as the guffaws that fill their car.

Sometimes Castiel’s ideas are good ideas.

“Hey,” Dean says, once his laughter his died away. “That place makes awesome cheeseburgers. Maybe not the top 5, but pretty damn close.”

Castiel follows the direction that Dean points, to the line of shops that apparently mark the town center. Even so, this is the quiet part of Ilchester, for the busier ports and fisheries are further eastward, and it reminds Castiel of his own quiet university town. No skyscrapers and busy streets, and if things were different Castiel might even have chosen to come here for his own leisure.

“You can stop and get some,” Castiel says. “I would like to try.”

“Really?” Dean says in surprise, as though Castiel’s going to deny him something that has his whole face lighting up. “Okay, just let me find parking.”

“You can park on the curb.” Castiel glances round back. “Rachel?”

“Yes, you may park illegally,” Rachel says dryly. “I will manage it. Go get your… whatever it is.”

There are not many people here this time of day, so their luxury car doesn’t draw any immediate attention. It makes for an interesting pilot test, anyway, and Rachel volunteers to stay with the car while Virgil shadows them from a polite distance as they walk to the burger stall.

There is a young woman behind the counter, plus a young man handling an order from a patron on the other side. The young woman draws up when they approach, and Castiel has the pleasure of watching Dean turn on the charm as he introduces himself and asks what’s the day’s special.

This is Dean’s element. This may not be his literal hometown but it’s close enough – Ilchester has been in Republic hands long enough that the touches of the kingdom that once owned it have been buried down or painted over. Castiel knows burgers but the options and styles listed on the board behind their server are practically a foreign language – and why are there so many different kinds of ketchup?

“I’ll have the special, everything on it, extra mustard,” Dean says. “He’ll have the Smokey the Bear, hold the pickles. Wait, do you like pickles, Cas?”

“They’re all right.”

“Okay scratch that, pickles on his.”

“Get something for Virgil and Rachel,” Castiel says.

“Alrighty.”

Once their orders are made their server gets to work, and Dean bounces a little on the balls of his feet in anticipation. Castiel’s reasonably certain that Elizabeth could prepare a decent burger for him if he asked. It’s possible that he’s too self-conscious to actually ask, though, so Castiel makes a mental note to see to that when they get back to the house.

Just behind their server, the other vendor is looking at them. He has, in fact, the very distinct face of controlled panic. Castiel smiles politely and inclines his head.

“There used to be a newsstand around here,” Dean says distractedly. “Hey, a payphone.”

“Yes, I’m aware of what payphones are,” Castiel says.

“I mean, uh…” Dean coughs guiltily, and whispers, “How bad an idea would it be if I went to use one right now? You know I couldn’t find a single phone in the house?”

“Oh,” Castiel says in surprise. “I think that’s part of our traditional honeymoon isolation. We are, in theory, supposed to use this time to get to know each other without distraction. Would you like me to ask Rachel? There should be a phone somewhere.”

“No, I don’t wanna ‘cause trouble—”

“Don’t be silly,” Castiel insists. “You shouldn’t be limited by our traditions. I will check with Rachel.”

“Oh. Thanks, Cas.” Dean loops his thumbs in his belt and makes a slow turn checking out the street. It’s easy enough to tell the exact moment Dean notices the handful of people on the opposite side of the road who trying to make like they’re just ambling around in no specific direction. “Uh.”

Castiel leans against Dean’s shoulder, close enough to whisper, “You did just participate in a celebrity wedding.”

“Sure,” Dean replies, “but these are my day clothes. Yours, too. How can they tell?”

“You do not have a face one easily forgets.”

“What.” Dean grapples for a suitable retort, mouth opening and closing, until something catches his eye and turns away, relieved for the distraction. There’s a child – a young girl, it appears to be – partially peering around the corner of the stall and staring up at them. Castiel’s choice of response would’ve been to smile and move on, but Dean’s not Castiel, for he says, “I’ll be done in a sec, ma’am, you’ll get your turn.”

The child says something, too faint for Castiel to hear. Dean lowers himself down a little and says, “Sorry, didn’t catch that.” She repeats it and Dean jolts, and then chuckles.

“What did she say?” Castiel asks.

Dean says something to the child, waiting until she nods before he turns to Castiel and says, “She said she wants to find her own prince someday.”

The child cannot possibly be older than six. “Princes are overrated,” Castiel says.

Dean _tsks_ at Castiel and smacks his arm. “What Cas here _means_ to say is that princes come in all kinds of packaging, and sometimes it won’t be the kind you’d think. You gotta look closely. That make sense, kid?”

The child nods and then slips away, running up the road towards a slightly horrified-looking adult. Dean waves at them, and Castiel musters up a smile of his own – it wouldn’t do to make people nervous with their presence.

“Quit making that face, Cas,” Dean admonishes. “Kid just wanted to say hi.”

“I’m not comfortable with children.”

“Kids are just small people.”

“You’re assuming I’m comfortable with people.”

Dean snorts. “You got me there.” He perks up when their server approaches with their readied order, packed into a hefty paper bag. Said server has also apparently been apprised of the situation, if one is to judge from the stiff smile that has taken over her features.

“Your change,” she says. Then she stares at them for a moment and bobs a curtsy. “Sire.”

“Whoa, none of that,” Dean says.

“Thank you for your prompt service,” Castiel says gently, handing over their payment. “Please keep the change.”

Dean takes their bags, waiting until they’re a polite distance away from the stall before saying quietly to Cas, “Is this what it’s gonna be like from now on? How am I supposed to get anything done when I go back to work?”

“It’s a novelty,” Castiel says. “Novelties wear off. Besides, I think it’s me that they're more nervous about. You’re one of them, after all.”

“More reason for you to have a big bite of your burger where everyone can see.” Dean dips his hand into the bag, pulling out one of the huge wrapped pieces to put into Castiel’s hands. “There. Enjoy. You’re one of us now, congrats.”

“Eating a burger makes me one of you?”

“Don’t question our ways,” Dean says. “Eat.”

Castiel sighs dramatically, but he opens the wrapping and starts on early dinner.

 

* * *

 

The burgers were a terrible idea. Even worse were the fries Dean had ordered as a side – _you gotta have fries to wash ‘em down, Cas_ – because by the time they finish their drive and get back to the house Castiel is on the verge of what Dean gleefully tells him is a food coma.

“This is what happens when you don’t vary your diet,” Dean says, steering Castiel into the house and waving off Virgil and Rachel who are heading back to their own lodgings. Virgil didn’t even touch his burger, but Rachel gamely finished hers off and admitted that it wasn’t bad. “You crash hard.”

“That makes no sense,” Castiel protests, peeling off his jacket and passing it to Dean to hang up. “It wasn’t even that big a portion.”

“Not that big a…” Dean whistles. “Mom would love to have you over for Thanksgiving. You demolished that thing like a champ.”

That sounds like praise, so Castiel responds with a polite, “Thank you.”

Somehow they end up in the television room, where Castiel is deposited on the couch and falls into a hazy state of detachment, noticing but not really noticing how Dean putters around the room opening cabinets and talking to himself until he barks a loud, “Aha!” and the TV screen bursts into life.

“Cas, look.” Dean’s waving something in Castiel’s face. “Found this on the shelf. Someone here must have a sense of humor.”

They’re video tapes of what appear to be movies, some of which even seem familiar to Castiel. Dean’s laid out a handful of them on the table and Castiel eventually recognizes their commonality: they’re historical films, many of which are flashy, over-dramatic productions and at least one of which Castiel knows is banned back in the kingdom.

“This feels ominous,” Castiel says.

Dean puts one of the cassettes into the player and then practically leaps onto the couch, making Castiel bounce when the cushions shift. “We should pace ourselves, yeah? A movie a day, how about that? I’ll learn plenty in no time.”

“I doubt these things are accurate.”

“But that’s what _you’re_ here for. You tell me when they get shit wrong. I’m going with this Raphael film first. Hey, remind me to ask Rachel to buy us some popcorn, ‘kay?”

“Which Raphael is that?” Castiel asks. “First, second or third?”

“I don’t know, man, I just work the remote.”

There are less productive ways to wrap up a day, that’s for sure. Castiel does like the couch, the food he’d had, the heat he can feel radiating from Dean’s side of the couch. It seems apropos to wind things up with a movie relevant to their interests, even if Castiel can barely keep his eyes open.

“This must be so weird for you,” Dean says. “Your family history put up like this?”

“You do realize they're probably making a movie about us right now.”

Dean chokes. “ _No_.”

As the film plays Castiel drifts in and out of consciousness, eventually registering that it is tale about King Raphael II, whose era was about two hundred odd years ago during the second expansion of the kingdom. Dean doesn’t strike Castiel as the sort of person who cares for these types of films but he seems genuinely into it, occasionally laughing or groaning or commenting on the stupidity of whatever even that’s playing on out the screen. Sometimes Castiel is even able to pay attention to what’s happening, pointing out annoying inaccuracies and surprising accuracies in how the story plays out.

“So you’re not descended from her, right?” Dean says.

“Mm, no,” Castiel says, stifling a yawn. “Neither me nor Michael are of her line. We descend from her younger brother.”

“The Duke? The creepy moustache guy?”

Castiel clutches a cushion against his chest, eyelids getting heavier. “Yes.”

“Tough beans,” Dean says.

“It’s just a movie. Look, they didn’t even get the Tollbooth right. It was never a fortress, it’s a township. They don’t even have the tower I was born in, and that was erected at the first.” Maybe Castiel should call it a night. He’s going to fall asleep any moment now and his back will hate him for it, no matter how comfortable the couch is.

“Cas,” Dean says quietly. “You were born in prison?”

“Mmm, no, it’s not as simple as that. My birth mother was under house arrest when I was born. As the King’s cousin she was accorded the comforts and trappings as befitting her rank, so she stayed in the royal apartments.”

“Yeah, the royal apartments in a _prison_.”

Castiel lolls his head on the back of the couch, turning aside to blink sleepily at Dean. There’s not that much space between them, and even in the dim light Castiel can tell that Dean is once again appalled that Castiel cannot understand why Dean’s reacting this way. It’s as though Dean keeps forgetting how different they are, how they’ve lived through different circumstances and been allowed to take different things for granted.

Not that Castiel knows much about what _Dean_ ’s lived through. Castiel doesn’t want to be bitter so he’s been shoving that feeling down all day, but right now, in the casual intimacy of the television room, he marvels in how little he knows about Dean, in how sparse Dean has been about sharing information of his own life. It’s not like Castiel has any right to demand Dean tell him even half of what Castiel’s freely shared, but he wants it – he _craves_ it – and has no idea how to voice that craving without making Dean shut down or flee.

“So your mom was, what, executed after you were born?”

Castiel nods. “And my father was killed at the Battle of Bridgeman, some months before that.”

“So you never knew your parents?”

“It’s all right, Dean. I don’t miss what I don’t know.” Castiel yawns. “My sister may have memories of them, but she didn’t talk of them much, I think that period was too painful for her. I am lucky to have had her in my life.”

“Your sister, Anna?” Dean asks. “Where’s she now?”

“Somewhere here, I imagine. She left Michael’s realm a few years ago, we still write to each other on occasion.”

“Jesus.”

“Good writer, Jesus. I enjoy his work.”

“This isn’t funny, Cas.”

If Castiel were more awake he could, perhaps, decipher the dark way with which Dean is looking at him. Once again there’s another conversation happening on top of the one they’re actually having, and Castiel feels warmed in a way that has nothing to do with Ilchester’s frankly insidious local brand of mustard.

This couch is nice, this moment is nice, the fact that Dean is looking at Castiel as though he’s a person who matters is nice. Sense memory decides to rear its head, reminding Castiel that Dean also smells very nice up close, and it would be nice if Castiel could add that to the many other nice things that this evening has brought them.

“You feel very strongly,” Castiel observes.

“Hey, don’t change the subject.”

“I like that about you.” Castiel leans over, letting gravity do most of the work in bringing their shoulders close enough to touch. Dean is frowning, and although Castiel doesn’t always like it when he frowns, Dean’s face moves in such interesting ways that it’s only more interesting up close.

Is it possible to feel pins-and-needles from being in someone’s presence? It must be possible, because Castiel is feeling it now as he moves in, studious in his observation of the way Dean’s brow moves and the way his mouth reforms, and that mouth is so interesting that Castiel must move in to kiss it.

Dean jerks back, eyes wide. “Uh.”

Castiel freezes, suddenly wide awake. Heat floods his face as it dawns on him what he’d done, what he’d assumed, what he’d forgotten.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel blurts out, sitting up sharply. “I wasn’t—I’d never take advantage of you, Dean.”

“Yeah, man, it’s cool.” The night is ruined, Dean is coughing awkwardly and subtle shuffling away from him, Castiel is a fool. “You’re tired, I get it.”

“I’d never take liberties with you,” Castiel insists. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Sure, yeah, hey this looks like an interesting part.” Dean’s not looking at him anymore, too busy fumbling with the remote and squinting at the TV.

It had been such a good day. Castiel hadn’t realized how contented he’d been until he’d gone and messed it up, and now he’s not even tired anymore, hands too cold and stomach twisting unpleasantly. What had he been thinking?

“Cas, it’s okay,” Dean says, gentler this time. “How about we forget that ever happened, huh?”

“That’s a good idea,” Castiel says. “I accept, thank you.”

“Great.”

Except it’s only easy in theory to forget something that happened within five minutes of it happening, unless there’s some way delete pockets of time – a skill of which is beyond even Castiel’s learning. The noise of the TV helps but only so much, and as the seconds and minutes tick on Castiel can almost literally see his chance to salvage the situation crawl farther and farther from view.

“I’m tired,” Castiel announces. “I think I’ll go to sleep.”

“You sure?” Dean asks. “I think someone’s gonna open a can of whoop-ass soon.”

“I’m pretty sure I know how it ends.” Castiel stands up slowly. “Can you manage yourself?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

“’Night, Cas.”

Castiel tries to at least be grateful that he doesn’t trip on his way out of the room. It’s not that bad, he tells himself. This is still salvageable, Dean seems to be blessedly mature enough to be able to forgive trespasses and move on.

Even so, Castiel waits until he’s in the privacy of his chambers before he collapses face-first on the bed and groans his mortification.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel’s understanding of Dean may be limited, but he thinks (or at least, he _likes_ to think) that Dean won’t resort to double-speak around him. Castiel would be the first to admit that he is guilty of such double-speak that is common back at court – talking around the truth, or through the truth, or veering wildly in between the truth in the attempt to pursue a goal – but Dean is refreshing in his open emotionality. When Dean’s upset, he makes it known clearly through word or action.

Similarly, Castiel hopes that when Dean is _not_ upset, his word or action matches accordingly. Basically, his hope is that Dean will choose honesty over politeness.

When Castiel finally makes his way to the private kitchen for breakfast the next morning, he stands across the island from Dean and says, “I wish to make up for my mistake.”

Dean’s hair is unruly, his cotton shirt unkempt, but his eyes meet Castiel’s directly. Half-awake but unabashed, Dean says, “Liz made pancakes. Can you get me a plate? A slab of butter, about yea big, on top? And honey on the side, yeah, that’d be great.”

Castiel performs to the letter of the request and pushes the filled plate towards Dean, who nods and says, “How ‘bout some coffee? Black, two sugars.”

After getting said coffee – plus fixing the filter when Dean says that it needs replacing despite looking brand new to Castiel’s eyes – and Deans asks for two eggs over-easy does Castiel realize what Dean’s doing. Then Dean notices that Castiel notices, and the grin that had apparently been suppressed through Castiel’s puttering around the kitchen is released to its full effect.

Castiel looks down at the coffee mugs still in his hands, and then places them on the table.

“Hey, man,” Dean says, with such _cheek_ that Castiel drops into his seat in surprise, “you did ask.”

For a moment Castiel is at a loss for words, watching while Dean digs into his hearty breakfast. “Is this how you manage your brother?”

“I dunno, I think I’m nicer to you.”

“There’s a thought.”

“Look, Cas,” Dean says kindly. “We’re stuck with each other, so let’s not make it awkward, okay? So boundaries: important. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“And you drop this topic, agreed?” When Dean doesn’t immediately get an answer, he pokes his fork in the air in Castiel’s direction. “Agreed?”

“Yes.” Castiel sighs. “Agreed.”

Dean beams at him. Castiel busies himself drinking his coffee, unsettled but pleased at Dean’s manner of dealing with the situation. It is not a technique Castiel would have used, or even thought of, but Dean displays his maturity and skill of compromise via unusual outlets. Castiel can’t decide whether this will make him a force to be reckoned with, or hopelessly in over his head, once he arrives at Michael’s court.

Goodness. Michael wouldn’t even know what to do with Dean. The thought makes Castiel smile.

“You think the coffee’s great?” Dean says. “You gotta try the damn pancakes. I gotta ask Liz how she gets them so damn fluffy.”

“She must be pleased to have such an appreciative person to cook for.”

“Yeah, you’re just lucky I left you a couple of empty spaces in the meal planning list.” Dean gestures over his shoulder and sure enough, the notepad on the refrigerator door has been filled with Dean’s meal requests. Apparently Dean’s hang-ups over asking for such things only last until he’s able to put faces to the people who’ve been employed to make their stay comfortable.

“I look forward to trying more of your culinary specialties. Oh, I almost forgot.” Castiel darts out of the room quickly, returning into the kitchen with his hands behind his back. “I have some good news and some bad news. In which order would you like them?”

Dean squints at Castiel. “Bad news first.”

“I just talked to Rachel. She told me that there is a phone in the other building, but she has forbade us from using it unless there’s an emergency. According to her, those are Michael’s gentle orders.”

Dean deflates. “Fine, I figured it was a long shot. Good news?”

“The good news is that we have letters.” Castiel brings out his hands, flourishing the small collection he’d been thrilled to receive from Rachel. Dean is similarly eager, perking up and making grabbing gestures in the air until Castiel gives him his share of the stack.

They settle into a slow breakfast, both of them enthralled by their bounty.

For Castiel, there is a letter from Balthazar, regaling the excitement and preparations at court for Castiel and Dean’s arrival. Although Michael sent emissaries to attend the wedding on his behalf, a second grand reception will be held for them once they arrive, no doubt to display Michael’s wealth for the Republic’s emissaries.

There is a letter from Anna, which had arrived at Castiel’s on-campus apartment weeks ago and had to be rerouted here. Hers is shorter and less flamboyant, but more personal in describing the works being done on her new home, her hopes that she can have it ready for his hypothetical visit one day. The letter is old enough that there’s no mention of Castiel’s wedding – she wouldn’t have heard about it until some time after it’d been posted.

The rest are cards and written congratulations from his peers and students over his wedding. Castiel doesn’t even know most of the people who’d sent them. He looks up to share this observation, but falters when he notices Dean’s grim expression.

“Is everything all right?” Castiel asks.

Dean hesitates, and Castiel notices that in the time he’d read through almost his entire haul, Dean has only one letter open, the others still untouched. “It’s from Sam. Mom forwarded it to me. From the date, I’d say Sam sent it just after they announced we were getting married.”

“Oh,” Castiel says.

“Yeah.” Dean frowns at the letter. “It didn’t occur to him that I would’ve taken his place.”

Castiel nods. From Sam’s point of view that is a reasonable assumption to have made. After all, their Council had already chosen the younger Winchester for the contract – the elder apparently too uncontrollable, or too inappropriate for their purposes. Sam would’ve assumed that in leaving, the wedding would’ve simply been postponed, or cancelled outright. From Dean’s scowl, Sam’s written reaction to the unexpected turn of events is a worrying one.

“I need to answer this, but how?” Dean says. “Kid sent it from an outpost, he could be anywhere by now. That numbskull better not be heading for the borders. There’s less official presence out there, so in theory he’ll be better hidden, but that’s just… Oh fuck, he’d totally do it.”

“You could write something and send it to your parents, to send to him when they are able,” Castiel suggests. “Or is there a way for you to signal your brother? Some place of meaning he will know to go to pick up your letter?”

“Sam’s too smart, he’d know they could use that to catch him.” Dean leans back in his chair, rubbing his temples. “I just want him to know I’m okay. He won’t believe it unless it comes from me.”

“Just like you wouldn’t believe Sam’s okay unless it came from him?”

Dean huffs in surprise, smiling. “Yeah. I just hope doesn’t do something stupid, is all.”

“You just said you believe in his intelligence.”

“There’s more than one kind of smarts,” Dean says. “Giving the authorities the slip is one thing. This chick of his, this Ruby, I hope she appreciates what she’s got.”

“Even if she doesn’t, it should be enough that Sam does,” Castiel says. “If he is like you, then he must be feeling troubled for how things have turned out.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah.”

“You should write a letter to him anyway. You may not have the means of getting word to him right now, but it’ll help you to compose your thoughts. Maybe you’ll get an idea along the way of how to get it to him.”

“You really think so?”

“Yes, I do.” This seems to encourage Dean, who nods with new resolution. Castiel adds, “I saw stationery and a typewriter in the library, you could use that. Perhaps you’d like to spend today working on your responses?”

“Do you mind?”

“Of course not. I will be doing the same. Shall we meet for lunch, then?”

Dean smiles gratefully. “Works for me.”

 

* * *

 

Aside from Castiel’s momentary lapse of judgment, their first day at the House pretty much sets the tone for the days that follow. They dial down the intensity of Dean’s learning, both of them non-verbally agreeing to play it by ear as they go along.

Meals are always taken together, though – a certainty in the routine that settles around them. The personal kitchen becomes their meeting room, its walls becoming the most familiar of all the other rooms in the house.

The days start with a shared breakfast. Dean is sometimes cranky, sometimes chatty and excitable, though he’s always wearing one his pop culture t-shirts, sometimes with rock ‘n roll coat of arms on them. Once they’re done, someone – usually Castiel – suggests something to do for the rest of the morning, and they do it. So far they’ve studied some of the books in the library, explored the farther grounds and visited the old temple, and sat down in the long gallery to study the paintings in more detail and context.

Lunch is together, after which Dean wanders off, sometimes to nap in his room and other times doing whatever it is he’s found worth doing in the House; Castiel once found him in the garage sitting on the Fallon’s hood and reading a book, which for some reason embarrassed him upon being caught. Castiel’s own daily activities are just as mundane, really – he’s done some writing in the sitting room, meditating with the punching bag in the gym, weeding in the garden (much to Rachel’s dismay), and so on.

Dinner is spent together and then, as it was on the first day, Castiel joins Dean to watch a movie in the TV room, taking care to sit in his own chair and pay attention to whatever video Dean has chosen.

These days are mundane, in a way that Castiel – and he thinks Dean as well, maybe – is grateful for. Castiel can almost imagine that they are merely new roommates trying to figure the best way to coexist. It’s almost comfortable. The few times they do trip on each other’s nerves is normal, even expected – Castiel dislikes Dean’s flippant insults on the ways of the kingdom (“ _You have to admit, Cas, that’s weird._ ” “ _I don’t have to admit a thing._ ”), and Dean is occasionally impatient when Castiel doesn’t catch on to something Dean thinks is obvious.

Through it all, Castiel minds the boundaries of Dean’s personal space and ensures that there’s no attempted kissing whatsoever.

Of course, this honeymoon isn’t solely for Dean’s education. Castiel is learning as well – about Dean, about the ways of his people, about the parts of the world that Castiel hasn’t had the privilege of learning outside of books. In some respects Dean is a living representative of the Republic’s eschewing of the old ways, dismissive and not seeing the point of many of their traditions, but in other respects he is just as conservative when it comes to propriety, yelling at Castiel to “ _Put on a goddamned shirt_ ” in the house’s gym when there’s no one around who could possibly care about maintaining decorum.

Dean may be shy on sharing his personal history, but he is more than happy to talk about his likes and dislikes, the things he finds normal or odd, the sheer tragedy that the record player in the receiving room has been neglected for so many years. It takes a whole day but Dean gets it to work again, practically bounding through the house to find Castiel and drag him to the receiving room to show it off.

“You need to get someone who knows how to take care of these babies.” Dean is very careful when he slips a record out of its sleeve. He sets it on the player and lets out a hoot of triumph when it works. “Not bad, huh?”

The crooning of violins fills the room. Dean stands back with his hands on his hips, justifiably proud of his handiwork.

“That is impressive.” It occurs to Castiel that aside from when the TV is on or the housekeepers are vacuuming, the house is quiet. Silence in itself isn’t worth noting, but combined with the size and empty space of the building, plus the grounds around it… It is a bubble, and it can be disconcerting.

The music now filling up the room dispels that bubble, making the house the smaller, cozier. It’s an orchestral piece that’s unfamiliar to Castiel, but it’s light and delightful, making him think of spring and newness, of celebration and blue skies. Whatever images it calls forth in Dean must be similar, making him spread his arms out to bask in the sunlight, or maybe embrace an old friend.

“Can you dance?” Castiel asks.

“A little.” Dean meets Castiel’s gaze briefly, and then ducks his head. “I mean, I know the basics.”

“Waltzes? What about galliards? Step dances?” When Dean admits his cluelessness, Castiel says, “Would you like to learn?”

“You mean you guys still dance like that? Like in the movies?”

“It’s a point of pride with Michael. Where he leads, the court and trends follow.”

“Okay, sure.” Dean shrugs. “Why not.”

They go through the records together, finding something that Castiel knows to be suitable and putting it on the player. This piece evokes Castiel’s dusty memories of childhood at court, sitting in a chair and watching as his relatives take to the dance floor and put on a show for each other and their king.

“Let’s try something you know first.” Castiel laughs when Dean makes a performance of pretend-slicking his hair back, and then smartly buttons up the shirt he’s wearing on top of his pop culture tee. Once done up to his satisfaction, he offers Castiel his hand.

They waltz together, Dean turning Castiel around the room and roughly following the time of the music. Dean is technically proficient but not at ease, and Castiel thinks he can almost see Dean counting off the numbers in his head as he makes his steps.

“We didn’t dance at our reception,” Castiel says.

“Maybe they forgot to ask me if I could. Kinda low on the priority list.” Dean’s movements are stiff but his hands are careful, the one on Castiel’s waist never pressing too hard. His other palm is a little damp, though, and Dean cringes as he adjusts his grip on Castiel’s hand. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right, you can’t help it,” Castiel says. “People wear gloves when they dance at court, anyway. Do you only lead?”

“Nah, I can switch.” Dean pauses a step, flashing a grin before leading Castiel out into a twirl that they only just manage due to their relative heights. When Castiel’s back in position he switches their hands, guiding Dean into the first few steps of his turn to be led.

It takes Dean a moment to get his rhythm back, but then they’re off again, following the next movement of the musical piece. Dean keeps his chin up, looking somewhat surprised by his own ability, and his smile of wonder is infectious. Castiel very rarely enjoys dancing, but apparently Dean has a talent for making Castiel be aware of parts of himself he’d not known before.

They don’t need to talk. Oh, Castiel tuts at him when he misses a step, and Dean laughs when he fumbles a little, but other than that it’s enough to simply enjoy each other like this, moving together in almost-synchronization.

“Can you leap?” Castiel asks, after a while.

Dean snorts. “No way you can lift me, man.”

“You’re supposed to jump with it as well.”

“We could poke someone’s eye out with that.”

“Would you rather I dip you?”

Dean chortles. “You can’t dip me.” He bleats when Castiel does exactly that, keeping a firm grip on Dean’s hand and waist, and lowering him just enough to prove his point before pulling him back up.

Castiel very much enjoys Dean’s poleaxed expression. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

“Yeah,” Dean says distantly. He licks his lips, glances down at the hand Castiel still has on his waist, and then back at Castiel’s face. “Yeah, okay.”

“Would you like me to demonstrate again?”

“You made your point.” Dean is blinking rapidly now, gently tugging the hand holding Castiel’s until Castiel lets it go. Dean moves restlessly, patting himself down and tugging the edges of his outer shirt in a self-conscious way. Dean probably didn’t know he could do that move either.

“You have good coordination, though I wonder if it’d be improved if your knees were closer together—” Castiel bends over a little and touches Dean’s knee, only for Dean to yelp and flail backward, almost smacking Castiel in the face.

“Hey!” Dean exclaims.

Castiel huffs. “You shouldn’t care about your bowlegs, they’re quite appealing—”

“What? No, it’s – you can’t do that! _Boundaries,_ Cas.”

“Oh.” Castiel steps back and clasps his hands together apologetically. “Yes, I’m aware, but some physical touch is necessary when dancing.”

“I mean the _flirting_ , Cas.” Dean shakes his head quickly, as though to clear his head. “You gotta stop with the flirting.”

Castiel is perplexed. Dean, however, is perfectly serious, for his face is flushed and his hands still moving restlessly at the edge of his shirt. A quick review of their conversation doesn’t raise any immediate red flags, leaving Castiel at a loss.

“You…” Dean rubs a hand over his face. “You have no idea what I’m talking about.”

“Flirting is the use of words to declare a sexual or romantic interest,” Castiel says slowly. “I understand that in theory, but I’d never deliberately tried to flirt with anyone before, until…” He gestures at Dean.

“Until your cherry-popping night on the town.” Dean sighs. “Yeah, I get it.”

“I promised that I wouldn’t pursue anything with you. And I’m keeping to that promise.”

Dean takes a deep breath. “Okay, maybe we should’ve been more thorough about this. From now on, from right this minute, you can’t talk to me like that anymore.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re attracted to me.”

Castiel has the feeling it’s the wrong thing to say, but says it regardless: “Dean, it can’t possibly be news to you that I find you attractive.”

Dean shouts in frustration. He is loud, but it’s not as though there’s anyone in the house they should be worried about. Castiel waits patiently as Dean flails, points at Castiel rapidly as though attempting to cast some sort of a warding spell, and then stomps over to the record player to cut the music. It would be mean of Castiel to call this a tantrum, so he doesn’t.

“You need to stop talking about my face and my hands and my shoulders and my _everything_ ,” Dean says firmly. “No more of that shit, okay?”

“So I can’t praise any physical aspect of you?”

“Yeah.”

“How about non-physical aspects?”

Dean frowns. “What?”

“How your jokes are funny, when I understand them,” Castiel says. “And how I enjoy your non sequiturs. Your observations can be astute, your storytelling skills remarkable and your intelligence compelling.”

Dean’s jaw works silently for a moment. “Yeah, you gotta stop that, too.”

“I’m not allowed to praise you in any way?”

“Precisely.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I don’t care! I don’t want to hear anything like that out of your mouth anymore! It makes me deeply, _deeply_ uncomfortable, okay? How would you like it if I kept going on and on about how ridiculous your eyes are?”

“Why are my eyes ridiculous?”

“What?” Dean sputters. “They – they just are.”

“Does that count as flirting?” Castiel asks, intrigued. “That can’t be right, my sister has commented on my appearance favorably many times—”

“Context, Cas,” Dean says through gritted teeth. “We’re married. We’ve slept together. Whatever we say to each other has all that baggage attached to it.”

“Why should anything agreeable that we say to or do with each other be leaden with sexual subtext?” Castiel protests. “That’s ridiculous. If I wanted to have sex with you, I would’ve just said so.”

“You tried to kiss me!”

Castiel opens his mouth to protest, and then mentally retracts the poor excuses that had automatically jumped to the forefront of his thoughts. “That is a good point,” he admits. “I apologized. I thought we agreed to act as though that never happened.”

“It’s obviously not working, is it?” Dean snaps.

The promise that Dean wants sits unwell in Castiel. Yet it’s significant that Dean has voiced his concern out loud, and Castiel should take that into consideration. “I will try my best to watch myself,” Castiel says. “I promise.”

Dean nods. “Thanks.”

“I’ll get you a dance manual,” Castiel says. “I think I saw one in the library. Will that be an acceptable substitute?”

“What?” Dean says distractedly. “Yeah, yeah, okay, I gotta go now.” He wanders off, leaving Castiel to turn off the record player properly and stow it away by himself.

 

* * *

 

There is indeed a dance manual in the library, and Castiel brings with it him to dinner. Dean is late in arriving, having apparently decided to have a bath after the exertion of dancing, though it doesn’t improve his mood much. Conversation is curt, Dean mumbling through most of it, while Castiel makes a valiant effort describing various dances and encouraging Dean ask him if he has any questions. Dean doesn’t.

It’s not that Castiel _wants_ to make Dean uncomfortable, but the sheer effort of having to watch everything he says becomes very tiresome very quickly. The easiest way to deal with the embargo is to talk about general things, non-personal things, but it merely makes Castiel feel even more like a self-centered speaker to the wall, even if he now understands a little better why Dean sometimes randomly frowns at him, or why he gets jumpy for what had previously appeared to be no reason whatsoever.

The next day is marginally better, with Dean amenable to Castiel’s suggestion that they go the library to begin work on their coat of arms. Michael will want to start showing off their combined badge when they arrive at his court, so they might as well start on it now.

“I suggest that we begin by studying our current badges,” Castiel says.

“Works for me,” Dean replies.

They bring copies of their badges to the library – Castiel has the banner from his room, while Dean has a small flag he’d apparently brought with him. They lay the items out on the table, and Castiel’s surprised to see that Dean’s is in impeccable condition, with the colors bright and the threads shiny – evidence of excellent, personal care. Familial pride.

Castiel’s badge itself is unremarkable, the various symbols inherited from his family line. The tree, the serpent, the rising sun – they are familiar to him as markers of his origins, though they mean little to him personally. Dean’s badge, however, is unusual. Castiel knows what the House of Winchester’s coat of arms looks like, having seen it all over the décor during their wedding. The one that Dean’s brought is similar, but not identical.

“You have a deer on your badge,” Castiel says in surprise.

“No, it’s…” Dean trails off. “Yeah, it’s a deer.”

Castiel quashes his disappointment, reminding himself that Dean is well within his rights to refuse to elaborate. “So your parents modified the family badge for their use. Are there any parts of it you wish to keep?”

“That deer,” Dean says immediately. “I like the sword, but yours has a sword as well so it doesn’t make sense to keep both…?”

“Swords are old-fashioned, aren’t they?” Castiel has prepared sketch paper, which he now spreads over the table and starts working with charcoal. “I will have to keep the tree, though perhaps we can move it to a quarter, not in the center? That way we are not symbolically accepting the Crown as a central influence of our identity.”

“You draw,” Dean says in amazement. “Like, you can _really_ draw. Wow.”

“It’s necessary for my field.” Castiel rubs at the charcoal, shaping simple representations of the various symbols. “I can’t do realistic facial portraits.”

Dean laughs. “I wasn’t gonna make you.”

“Sadly that’s what most people tend to ask next.”

“I guess I’m not most people.”

“I…” Castiel shakes head, cutting the _I know_ that had been on the tip of his tongue. “I assume the sword is from the House of Campbell?”

“Yeah, the sword is Mom’s, the blunderbuss is Dad’s, the deer is both of ‘em.”

“It’s interesting that both your parents chose weapons as their personal symbols.” Once the outlines of the symbols are completed, Castiel uses scissors to cut them out so they can arrange them on the shield. “Here, we can mix and match.”

“That’s pretty neat.” Dean starts moving the pieces around. “I never thought about getting my own badge before.”

“You can come up with your own personal symbol.” Castiel pulls out another fresh sheet, stroking the surface absently. “I used to think about this a great deal. I don’t know how your people feel about badges but for us it’s innately entwined into our identity. I used to fantasize about having a badge completely my own. With none of Michael’s symbols.”

Dean makes a sound of surprise. “Isn’t any of this from your parents?”

“They’re traitors to the Crown. Their symbols are no longer worthy for use.”

Dean falls silent, perhaps offering Castiel a moment of respect, which is a nice thought. Castiel keeps drawing, faintly regretting not bringing his sketch books for reference. Dean quietly moves the symbol pieces around, and then shifts closer to watch Castiel’s drawing take shape.

“What would you like on your badge?” Dean asks.

“For a while I thought about wings. But that’s ostentatious, isn’t it?” Castiel laughs softly. “It doesn’t matter, wings are a restricted symbol, only Michael can decide who can use those.”

“Wings,” Dean says. “Freedom?”

“Yes.” Castiel looks up and finds Dean watching him, his face open with such curiosity, kindness, and – if Castiel isn’t imagining it – the warmth of kinship. Longing catches in Castiel’s chest, urging him to move closer into the sunshine of Dean’s presence, but he flattens his feet on the ground. “I take it where I can. Or I used to.”

For a moment no one moves. They’re just Dean and Castiel, leaning against a table together, their elbows almost touching. Dean’s eyes are such a fascinating color, and Castiel’s fingertips tingle with the desire to touch the crow’s feet that line them.

Dean stands up sharply. “I hate this.”

“All right,” Castiel replies.

“You don’t even know what I’m talking about. You’re just – you’re just rolling with it, trying to make it all make sense even though I know you’re as pissed about this as I am.”

“But I do know what you’re talking about.”

“No you _don’t_.” When Castiel asks him to clarify, Dean merely says, “This” and gestures between them, which only reminds Castiel that Dean’s definition of their nebulous connection must be different from Castiel’s.

“This might surprise you, but that explanation doesn’t actually explain anything to me.”

“Really?” Dean moves, coming in close, and Castiel’s breath catches when he realizes Dean is coming in _really, really close._ A breath and a clatter of the charcoal when it drops, and Dean’s got Castiel boxed in against the table, his thighs brushing Castiel’s, the buttons of Dean’s outer shirt scraping against Castiel’s arms.

Dean doesn’t kiss him. He just stands there with their noses barely brushing, making his point with the inches of air between their bodies. If Castiel just pushed against the table a _little_ he could become acquainted with the solid press of Dean’s body, relieve the ache in his untouched lips.

Dean’s just a man, Castiel tells himself. This isn’t magic, this isn’t alchemy, this is just Dean, who manages to be soft and cold at the same time, and if Castiel is feeling the warmth of arousal low in his stomach then he is simply being a human being.

“I’m not gonna kiss you,” Dean says.

“All right.”

“But you know what to expect if I did kiss you. You know, from personal experience, what it’s like.”

Castiel licks his lips. “Yes.”

“Yeah.” Dean steps back and Castiel almost gasps in relief, whole body shivering and frustrated. “See, if we started from scratch, maybe this would be easier. Then we’d be complete strangers to each other, dealing with a clean slate. But we’re not, Cas. We got _this_ hanging over us.”

Castiel feels lightheaded, and swallows compulsively around his dry throat. “We can’t change that any more than we can change the fact we’re married. I am not ashamed of any of it.”

“So, what,” Dean snaps, “you wanna roll around together, try to get this out of our system, _again_?”

Castiel flushes. “Why do you make that sound disgusting?”

“Because it’s what Michael _wants_ , Cas.”

Castiel is bewildered by the mention of the king’s name, but Dean seems to be perfectly serious. “What does Michael have to do with this? He only wants our marriage. He doesn’t care whether it’s consummated or not. And even if he did, we already _have_ consummated it, or have you forgotten?”

“’Course I haven’t forgotten, that’s the point.”

“Then it’s me you find disgusting now.”

“Don’t do that, don’t _do_ that!” Dean yells. “I think you’re great, Cas! I think you’re one of the few things keeping me from tearing down the walls in this place.”

“Shouldn’t that be good?” Castiel says. “Isn’t that what friends do for each other?”

“ _Friends_.” Dean laughs hollowly. “Yeah, sure we said we’re gonna try to be friends. Well maybe I was wrong. Friends can flirt, and friends can fuck, and heck, friends can even get married if they want to. But when you do all three at once, something’s gotta bleed. I think it’s bleeding now, Cas.”

Castiel takes in Dean’s frustration, the subtle vibration of his body, the fists clenched tight at his sides. A thought occurs to him. “Are you getting attached to me?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is for me,” Castiel says. “I know myself enough.”

“Well, not everyone’s made like that,” Dean says. “We’re stuck in this fucking house with each other. Yeah, I like you, but do I like you because I _like_ you, or do I like you because it’s only you I get to see day after day after day? This, it’s messing with my head, and that’s what Michael wants, isn’t it? That’s why you have this tradition, that’s why you keep the couple isolated for so long.”

Nausea seizes Castiel, Dean’s observation astute and unsettling. But Dean’s also wrong, for this is an important time of learning and negotiation, and it’s only Dean who’d see it in such an unflattering light. Castiel certainly does not.

“Would you rather we’d have gone straight to Michael?” Castiel asks. “Without a chance to get to know each other, or figure out how to get along?”

“Yeah, then maybe I wouldn’t be so fucked up in the head!” Dean exclaims. “God, Cas, I can barely deal with the fact that I’m _married_.”

“There’s your problem, isn’t it? You’re applying emotion to a transaction.”

“Transaction?” Dean echoes.

“Yes. You’ve forgotten this isn’t a real marriage.”

“This isn’t a real marriage?” Dean makes a show of rolling his sleeve up to reveal the lines of the marriage tattoo. “This isn’t real? The words we said weren’t real? Just ‘cause we don’t like how it happened doesn’t mean that _it didn’t happen_. You’re my husband, Cas. You’re part of my life and I’m responsible for you and… I don’t know what it means.”

“That’s because it doesn’t mean _anything_. We will perform our roles and part ways—”

“I’ll have to see you for the rest of my life. Whenever I fill forms I’ll have to tick the ‘married’ box. Whenever I take a shower it’s your name I’ll see on my skin. Maybe I never wanted to get married but even I know that this _matters_.”

“It doesn’t matter to me,” Castiel says. “I may call you my husband, but you’re my ally and maybe my friend. That’s it.”

“So easy to you, isn’t it?” Dean sneers.

“Of course it is,” Castiel says, though blood is rushing through his ears and he’s not sure he has any more of a handle on what he’s saying as what Dean’s thinking. “You’re just a name and a face. I’m not behaving any differently than if I’d married your brother as planned.”

Castiel doesn’t realize he’d dealt a blow until he sees Dean’s face go pale. The flash of hurt in Dean’s eyes is a shock Castiel isn’t prepared for and doesn’t know to respond to.

“Oh,” Dean says.

This really is very clear, Castiel tells himself. Dean is making a mountain out of a molehill, attributing his personal biases to a situation that is so simple. He doesn’t need to do this, he doesn’t need to be upset, they can deal with this like the adults they are. Castiel should help him get his head on straight.

“You’re making this unnecessarily difficult,” Castiel hears himself say. “Aren’t you supposed to be the more experienced one in these matters? Your sexual experience is wider and more varied than my own. This – this thing between us – it’s just chemistry, that’s all. It’s not limited to us.”

“Oh,” Dean says again.

“If you are so appalled at the thought of relations between us, then you should search for release elsewhere.”

Dean blinks rapidly. “You wouldn’t care?”

“Of course not. You know very well you're within your contractual rights to do so, and I have always expected you to form other relationships to fulfill your needs.”

“Okay.” Dean nods rapidly, and then starts taking slow, backward steps away from Castiel. “I see. Yeah.”

“Maybe you should take a walk to clear your head,” Castiel says. “I’ll see you at lunch. Or dinner, whichever.”

“Okay.” This is what Dean looks like when he’s unhappy, and unable to hide it. “Okay, yeah. Good idea.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Contains** : Implied off-screen Dean/other (but not really).

There are voices outside the house. At first Castiel thinks it’s the downstairs TV with the volume turned up louder than usual, but the echo and direction is wrong for that. Castiel puts his book down and makes his way to the study window, squinting against the sunlight.

The angle is too awkward and the voices too soft, but Castiel is able to make out Dean and Elizabeth standing together at the corner of the house, partially hidden by the garden’s trees. Dean’s back is to Castiel, while Elizabeth’s face is obscured by Dean’s head and shoulder. They’re talking, and then after a while they’re walking, moving away from the building until they disappear entirely from view.

This should not bother Castiel. There are many things that they could be talking about. Even if Dean is telling her about their argument earlier this morning, then Castiel must trust that Dean’s judgment is sound and he will not share anything incriminating. Anyway, the likelihood of insidious gossip spreading beyond the estate is small – the house staff are all handpicked and bound by reams upon reams of confidentiality agreements.

Maybe Dean is telling Elizabeth how shocked he is to have learned of his spouse’s views of marriage. Maybe he’s laughing about it, making light of their differing views to a willing ear. Or maybe he’s talking about something mundane and cheerful and has nothing to do with Castiel at all.

Castiel is uneasy at the thought of Dean discussing their private matters with others. Dean seems sensible enough to know not to do that, but can Castiel be absolutely sure? No, he can’t. He can only speculate on whether Dean would seek out someone of his community with whom he can commiserate and say: _They’re so STRANGE_.

By the time Castiel goes down for lunch, he’s worked himself into a mild state.

It’s only a _mild_ state, because he knows there’s nothing to worry about, and he really would just like to make sure that Dean’s all right, that’s all.

Dean’s already in the kitchen, in the middle of fetching a drink from the fridge when Castiel enters the room. He looks at Castiel, his gaze neutral and indifferent, and pops the cap off his bottle.

Ideally, Castiel doesn’t want to be the one to break the silence, yet his body is thrumming with expectation, waiting for a suitable opening to reiterate his position because he’s had some time to think about it and he could decimate Dean’s argument given the chance. Sadly Dean doesn’t seem to be in the mood for talking, shuffling straight for the oven to get lunch.

“Are you still angry?” Castiel asks.

Dean gives him a look. “Pro-tip: the best way to make someone angry is to ask them if they’re still angry.”

Fine, Castiel might still be hankering for a fight. But how can he not, when they’d not resolved anything? Castiel dislikes loose threads, especially when said loose threads are going to be dangling over them for the rest of the honeymoon. Dean may be content to pick at his food and make as though there’s nothing to say, but Castiel loathes awkward silences that he hadn’t planted there on purpose.

“I’ll rephrase,” Castiel says. “Are you feeling better?”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah. The walk helped.”

“Where did you go?”

Dean doesn’t jolt, doesn’t jump, doesn’t turn a telling shade of red. Yet there is a shift in the way he carries himself, in the steadiness of his hands and the coolness of his expression. Castiel’s seen this before a handful of times, when they’d had to perform in front of cameras and audiences not of their choosing. If Castiel feels a pang to be on the receiving end of this politeness, then that’s his own problem.

“The gardens,” Dean says flatly. “Around.”

“Just the gardens?”

“There’s a lot of garden.”

“By yourself?”

“What, you got a problem?” Dean snaps. “I took a walk, like you said.”

“I just want to make sure you didn’t reveal anything private to the staff.”

Dean drops his hands to the table, the edges of his fork and spoon hitting the formica so loudly that Castiel jumps with it. “ _That’s_ what you’re worried about? That I might blab to the help?”

“You don’t need to be defensive, I don’t mind if you confide in others—”

“Of _course_ you don’t mind,” Dean says, too loud and too dramatic. “You’re cool, you got it all under control. _I’m_ the idiot who doesn’t know how these things work, ain’t that right, Cas?”

The bluster is a front. It’s always a front with Dean, who makes noise to distract. “So you were with Elizabeth?”

“What, you mean Biblically?” Dean snorts. “Yeah, sure, I had to burn it off somehow, right?”

Something in Castiel’s chest clenches. “She’s our cook.”

“She’s a human being!” Dean yells. “Geez, Cas, I know it’s hard to tell from the top of that tower of yours, but I don’t care about all that hierarchy family line _purity_ bullshit. People are people, and everyone’s on the same level to me.”

“You’re wrong,” Castiel says. “When you’re in a position of power, those under you will find it difficult to say ‘no’ to you, and it’s your responsibility to watch that line.”

Dean inhales sharply, and his glare is unrelenting. “Know a lot about that, do ya?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all you care about?” Dean almost sounds disappointed.

“I care about your well-being, yes.”

“Gee, great, thanks, what would I do without you?” Dean says sarcastically, and Castiel is suddenly very, very tired. He doesn’t think either of them have any idea what they’re arguing about anymore, and the few hours since the last round hasn’t been enough time to thin those feelings out.

Dean is – spitfire. Color. The wild weather of the changing seasons, strong and vibrant and sometimes unpredictable. He cares for things strongly and dangerously, leaving Castiel half-terrified, half-thrilled at the thought of him being let loose in court. Yet Castiel doesn’t think he can keep up with someone this, no matter how much he wants to. It’s a wonder it took this long to get to their first real clash, actually.

“What’s that?” Dean says.

Castiel looks down. He’d almost forgotten he’d brought something with him. “It’s a radio.”

“Looks busted.”

“I thought you might want to fix it, after your good work on the record player.” The idea made more sense when Castiel found the old thing in the library. Now, placed on the table before a disinterested Dean, the old-fashioned object just looks ridiculous. “You may keep it in your room to give it some noise. If you can get it to work again, of course.”

“Oh,” Dean says. “Okay.”

What was it that Castiel wanted to tell Dean? He can’t remember.

“I’m going upstairs,” Castiel says. Dean grunts something that might be an acknowledgement, and blessedly does not laugh when Castiel accidentally kicks the door with his foot and almost falls over on his way out.

* * *

It’s not as if Castiel is _wrong_. Dean’s over-analyzing their relationship to no useful end when everything had been so clearly laid out – literally, in their case, what with the marriage contract document. The fact that they met each other before knowing who the other was is a blessing, not a curse, and it’s only the strange wheels in Dean’s mind that have turned that round into the worst possible interpretation. Dean is being pessimistic and grim, and so obviously set in his course of being pessimistic and grim that will not listen to anything Castiel has to say.

It’s best that Castiel stay in his room. Dean needs space to breathe and gather his bearings. He’d said that Castiel’s presence was messing with his head, after all.

There’s plenty that Castiel can do in his room. He can get more writing done, and there are the books he’d taken from the library for some pre-bedtime reading. He can indulge with another long soak in the bathtub – a luxury well-worth spending more time on, and explore the various bath salts he’d yet to open from their plastic wrappings.

Dean is grateful for this breather, definitely. It’s all so overwhelming for him. Castiel knew it would be, but hadn’t realized it would be to this extent.

Dean probably hates the house. No, not probably – he _does_ hate the house, he’d said as much. The house is too old-fashioned, too foreign, too much a reminder of the role he has to play. It’s understandable that he hates the house. Dean has no friends here either, no one who can speak the vernacular with him, no one he can confide in. The letters they receive and send out every other day are a poor substitute for direct contact.

He could’ve confided in Castiel. Maybe Castiel didn’t make it clear that Dean would’ve been welcome to do that.

It makes sense Dean would go to Elizabeth. She is kind and funny, and would understand Dean’s references. Castiel definitely doesn’t begrudge Dean seeking out a change of environment. Dean could be with her right now, telling her how ridiculous Castiel is. She would, no doubt, nod sagely and tell Dean that he is in the right and Castiel is misunderstanding things to the nth degree.

It’s not Castiel’s fault Dean’s bleeding emotions where they’re not needed.

* * *

Castiel’s done being conciliatory. Dean’s a grown man and should act like one. He should recognize that they are very lucky that the situation is what it is, for it could be so much worse, and Castiel has done his best to make things comfortable for them both. It’s not as though Castiel has any more power or choice in the matter than Dean does. It’s not as though it’s Castiel’s fault that they’re stuck with each other.

If Dean is unable to maintain his emotional distance, then that’s on him. Castiel’s been very clear that he has no expectations of anything further than friendship, and if Dean is unable to manage his physical attraction when Castiel has no such problem, then that’s his own fault. If Dean’s getting confused or projecting, it’s not as though Castiel’s done anything to encourage it.

The more Castiel thinks about it, the more he suspects that Dean mentioned the liaison with Elizabeth deliberately to hurt, though its effectiveness is laughable. Dean is, of course, free to sleep with whomever he wishes. Castiel merely pointed it out to his face, and it’s natural that Dean would go for it once he’d received explicit permission. Yes, Castiel’s now well-aware that Dean’s physical frustrations must have been tiring – no wonder he’d been so on edge. But that, too, isn’t Castiel’s fault, because he would have willingly slept with Dean if he’d so wanted.

Castiel’s done trying to be accommodating. If Dean so dislikes his company then he might as well not have it at all. Castiel’s doing him another favor he doesn’t deserve, really.

* * *

It’s long past dinner when Castiel wakes up. He’s sprawled on his bed lengthwise, the room dim because the sun went down while he’d been unconscious. The book he’d been reading is still open, a few pages hovering in the air like judgmental vanes.

Castiel stretches his jaw, and then his arms. His body feels weighed down, lethargic, the unnecessary nap messing up his system. His stomach’s unhappy, too, and would appreciate some attention right about now.

If Dean is following the daily schedule, he should be watching his movie in the TV room by now. Or he might not be. Unfortunately no sounds can travel this far to let Castiel know where the house’s other occupant might be.

Castiel turns on the lights and glances at his reflection in the mirror. He doesn’t look his best when just woken up but he seems more rumpled than usual, more unacceptable for presentation. He really doesn’t want to see Dean at the moment. Or let Dean see him, it’s practically the same thing.

He _could_ sneak downstairs for a snack.

But that feels like too much effort when he could just lie here and wait for something else to happen.

* * *

It’s only long after midnight when Castiel finally gives up, reasonably assured by this point that Dean must have finished up his movie and is now fast sleep.

Castiel furtively opens his door, and finds that the hall and house beyond is as quiet as a temple. The main lights are off but the house’s interior is bathed in luminous silver, thanks to the massive skylights and clear night sky above.

Castiel thinks he can navigate the building reasonably enough, but he takes a candle with him, just in case. He almost feels like a child again, creeping around Zachariah’s manor in search of the building’s secrets. There is the same sense of trepidation in every step he takes – barefoot, his slippers held in his other hand. His senses are on alert for any sign of the enemy, be it someone who can catch him, or a wayward piece of furniture. Castiel’s footsteps are steady as he makes his way down, past the silent first floor with its sleeping dragon at the far end, to his destination.

The kitchen is clean, the stoves and table tops cleared. Castiel checks the fridge, where there’s the usual fruit, snacks, juices and beer, plus a casserole wrapped in foil on the top shelf. Castiel almost ignores the casserole, assuming it to be something Dean’s keeping for himself, until he notices the little scribble on it in black felt-tip ink – ‘ _Cas’._

Castiel wraps the casserole in cloth, not bothering to warm it up because the microwave might as well be a howling siren this time of night. He also takes some bread and a few pieces of fruit, putting all of it into a basket. He could very well be eight years old again, building up supplies to keep in his rooms, Anna standing around the corner as the look-out.

Zachariah wouldn’t have kept leftovers for Castiel, though.

* * *

The late meal means there’s no way around it – Castiel oversleeps and wakes up bloated. Sunlight filters through the curtains, which is a pity because he’d hoped to watch the sunrise.

Another day, here they go. Castiel doesn’t want to get up, or go out, or do anything useful. This is a nice room, and he should just stay here until the restless itch under his skin is flushed out and everything makes sense again. This is strain of cabin fever, that’s what it is. Why couldn’t Dean have managed himself more effectively?

They were always going to have that first argument somehow. In some ways this is good, in how they’ve gotten that over with and now only have to digest the matter and come up with a conclusion that’s pleasing for both parties.

Castiel slowly stretches, warming up a body already lethargic from what was an effective day of limited activity, and then drops to the floor for sit-ups.

Halfway through his second a set, a knock at the door surprises Castiel into stillness. Even more surprising is the cautious, “Cas?” that follows.

Should Castiel answer? Should Castiel pretend to still be asleep? Does Dean know he’s awake? Did he hear Castiel move?

Dean knocks again, a little louder. “Hello?”

“Yes,” Castiel calls out, loud enough to be heard through the door. “I overslept. Is there anything?”

“No, nothing.” There’s a pause, Dean’s shadow unmoving through the crack beneath the door. “Just checking everything’s okay.”

“It’s fine. I’m about to have a shower.”

“Okay.”

Another pause, and Castiel realizes that he doesn’t know if the door is locked. Dean could just turn that doorknob and enter, and then he might ask questions, which is dangerous because Castiel is not prepared for questions or even dressed for questions and Dean will see the food Castiel brought up to his rooms and there will be more questions about that.

Dean leaves, footsteps fading as he retreats down the hallway.

Castiel exhales, almost dropping to the floor when the tension ebbs from his body. He will start on his crunches next, and then have another long soak. Dean is clever enough to find his own entertainment elsewhere, anyway.

* * *

It’s a few hours later when there’s knocking at his door again, and this time Castiel is deep in his reading and less agreeable to interruption. “What?”

A feminine voice says, “Your Lordship?”

It’s Rachel standing outside his door when Castiel opens it, which is unusual enough in itself that Castiel immediately says, “Did Dean send you?”

“Why would Dean send me?” Rachel asks in surprise. She looks past Castiel into the room, where evidence of his nesting has yet to be cleared, and her eyes narrow shrewdly. “Are you having a passive-aggressive sulk?”

“Keep your comments to yourself. Why are you here?”

Rachel remembers herself at the rebuke, standing back respectfully before bowing. Always mindful of ceremony, Rachel brings both hands forward to formally present a letter. The envelope is cream but Michael’s seal is a deep crimson, and such is Castiel’s Pavlovian response to the sight that his heart immediately sinks.

“Just arrived this morning, sir.” Rachel straightens up when Castiel accepts the letter, but makes no move to leave.

Castiel eyes her warily. “Am I not allowed to read this in private?”

“I need your immediate response, so I can relay it back.”

Marvelous. Castiel cracks the seal, unfolding the thick paper to reveal Michael’s impeccable calligraphy. He reads, frowns, rereads, and when he’s sure he’s understood the full meaning, says, “This is unacceptable. A honeymoon is and always has been four weeks. Why would he ask us to shorten it?”

“His Highness would like to meet you and Dean.”

“He will do that at the end of the month, as is planned.”

“He can’t wait, he’s so looking forward to it.”

“That’s no excuse for breaking with tradition.”

Rachel’s face has always been easy to read. Castiel can see her mentally prepare to deflect or concoct a suitable half-truth, before giving up and saying in dismay, “So I can’t make preparations for your departure?”

“Not if I’m not convinced.”

“But it’s a royal order,” Rachel says weakly.

“Dean’s not ready,” Castiel says. “He needs this time to prepare himself. It’s unfair to rush him into this, and I won’t without good reason. Do you have a good reason?”

“The people need to see you. You need to be seen at court, both of you together.”

“Ah,” Castiel says thoughtfully. “People are questioning the circumstances around my change of groom. They wish to see the result for themselves?”

“Yes.”

Castiel considers the speediness of Rachel’s answer. “That’s not all of it. Tell me.”

“Please, Castiel—”

“Should I request a call to Naomi?”

“Oh!” Rachel flounders for a moment, as though it hadn’t crossed her mind that Castiel would react this way. They should’ve sent Ion to do this job. “There’s only some… It’s just minor… There’s some dispute over the validity of the marriage.”

Castiel frowns. “What kind of dispute?”

“As far as I understand it, the main point of the argument is that Sam Winchester never consented to the breaking of his engagement.”

“Sam left before the wedding, doesn’t that make it clear how he felt about it?”

“But it’s not _official_ ,” Rachel points out. “He never declared his intention to a cleric, or even to his guardians – his parents. We only have letters from him saying he left on his own free will. Letters can be forged or written under duress.”

“But if you follow that argument, then my contract with Sam was never broken, and I wasn’t free to marry Dean.”

“Yes.”

“That’d make my marriage to Dean invalid.”

“Yes.”

The idea is so preposterous, so inconceivable, that it takes Castiel a handful of seconds to process the domino effect of its implications. Even when he has processed, it sounds so impossible in his head that he has to say it out loud: “But Dean and I… we’ve consummated it. Even if it’s accepted that the marriage is invalid, I can’t marry Sam to restore the original contract. It’ll be one degree of affinity – incest.”

Rachel nods. “I know.”

It’ll all be undone. All those months of negotiating, planning, arguing, dancing around the auld grudges of yore that have marred their international relations – and that’s only the parts that Castiel has seen. Michael and Naomi’s work goes much farther and deeper than Castiel knows. Everyone’s been holding their breath since the Wall came down, and this was supposed to be proof that things are finally working out, both nations finally connecting in a tangible way, united in strength against the creatures of the realm and the wilderness on the continental borders.

“I will write to Michael,” Castiel says. “A telegram won’t do, I will need length to argue my case. You will arrange for an express courier to send it to him.”

“Castiel—”

“If we end the honeymoon early that’ll just give vicious tongues more reason to wag. To leave early is to say that there is weight to that argument, when there isn’t. We must stick to the schedule, and show everyone that there is nothing improper going on.”

“Sir, His Highness was very clear—”

“I will _not_ be responsible for the destruction of this treaty,” Castiel says, so strongly that Rachel takes a quick step back. Castiel knows how these things go well enough, after all. If this falls apart, then somewhere down the line, sooner or later, they will need to find a scapegoat. “Who is even arguing for this? If it’s Naomi…”

“No, Naomi is your greatest defender,” Rachel says quickly. “I only know what I’ve been told, and they say the focal point is Uriel, sir.”

“Uriel.” Castiel should be surprised by this, but he isn’t. Uriel is close kin, they’d lived under the same roof many times, and he’s the only other of the cousins to have known Anna well. But that Uriel has chosen such a stance is also the norm of the kingdom – same old, same old. “Thank you for telling me. I will come to you when I’ve finished my letter.”

“What about Dean?”

“What?” Castiel says. “Oh. Yes, you should…”

“Sir?” Rachel prompts.

“Yes, please inform Dean.” Castiel nods. “He should be aware of this. I must start on my response immediately.”

Rachel is nonplussed, but she accepts the instruction with a polite incline of her head. “Yes, sir. Very good.”

* * *

It’s not an unprecedented move, but in the past it’s always been marriages closer to the throne that have come under scrutiny. Power plays are a constant, but Castiel had no idea that Uriel’s ambitions went that far. It just goes to show for out of touch Castiel is – not that he cares to improve his knowledge.

It takes two drafts before Castiel is content with his letter. His main points are solid, and he’s taken care to avoid mentioning Dean where possible – the less Michael thinks of Dean as a piece to play, the better. Dean is only answerable to his fellow hunters and his Council, who will defend him and his position to the ends of the Earth whatever they may be. Castiel’s allies, however, may be counted on one hand – and Naomi is on that hand, which says a lot. He needs to watch out for himself.

Castiel’s pen hovers over the letter, but he can’t bring himself to sign just yet.

He looks up from his desk, turning to the window. It’s raining, which means that Dean is probably indoors somewhere.

Decision made, Castiel stands up and leaves the room, letter in hand. He walks briskly down the hallway, knowing that it’s better to move quickly before he second-guesses himself and changes his mind.

Castiel eventually finds Dean in the long gallery, which is one of the last places he would’ve expected him to be. Castiel makes no effort to be quiet as he approaches, and is surprised to find that Dean has lit a unicorn candle and is studying the family tree.

“Did Rachel talk to you?” Castiel asks.

“Hello to you, too, Cas.” Dean’s tone is neutral, almost weary. “Yeah, she did.”

Castiel follows Dean’s line of sight, trying to make out the names that have captured Dean’s attention. Michael’s name is there, his immediate kin off to the side, including Lucifer’s name which is faded but not scratched out. Dean slowly moves his candle down to where Castiel’s branch is, the tendrils of the connect lines fanning out like veins.

“They still haven’t put my name in yet,” Dean says. “That thing Rachel said is happening… is that why?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel says. “Maybe. What do you think about it?”

“I think you guys need to make up your minds, is what I think.”

Castiel laughs a little, which makes Dean start. “That happens far too often. Do you wish to protest?”

Dean seems surprised that Castiel would ask him this. Surprised, and then suspicious, and then he shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“I think it’s best to write to Michael personally,” Castiel says. “I would like to know your thoughts.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think, doesn’t it?” Dean says quietly. “They’ll just make the move they want to.”

“I’m not them,” Castiel says.

“I know you’re not.” When Dean turns to Castiel, his eyes are tired. Yet there is a smidge of affection there, a softness that Castiel doesn’t deserve.

A chill runs down Castiel’s spine as the veil falls away and he realizes that the things Dean said yesterday – the things Castiel has all this while been thinking of as attacks – they were a _confession_. The things he’d told Castiel were a point of shame for him, something he’d tried to keep hidden and manage himself, and in saying them out loud he’d bared his vulnerable belly to the world, and Castiel told him that those things didn’t matter (that _he_ didn’t matter).

How many times have members of Castiel’s own family told him the same thing? That he is too unthinking, too unfocused on the big picture?

“Dean,” Castiel says urgently, “I’m sorry I belittled your opinion. I can’t always foresee how deep the differences can go between us. I didn’t see the straight line from your experiences to your beliefs – your parents broke from their old, powerful Houses for the sake of each other – and of course that forms your identity. Marriage means something to you, something personal that I’d never considered or thought about, because there are some things I never learned to think of as… real. I apologize if that doesn’t make sense.”

Dean’s arms are wrapped his middle, and he’s been hunching over tighter and tighter the longer Castiel speaks. Dean’s still frowning at the family tree, eyes tracking the paths, but he’s listening. He’s definitely listening.

“Your opinion matters to me a great deal,” Castiel says. “I would like to know it, whatever it is. I will try better to listen to you from now on.”

“I…” Dean licks his lips. “Dude, this is so above my paygrade. If the marriage is debunked then the whole treaty goes tits up with it, right?”

“I believe so.”

“Crap,” Dean says. “It’s not like they’re challenging why _we_ got married. They’re arguing as though they’re fighting for Sam. The hell’s up with that?”

“It’s a complication they thought worth exploring. A weak spot to drive the hammer in.”

“Yeah. Yeah, makes sense.” Dean is silent for a long moment, and then exhales slowly. “This is normal for you guys, isn’t it? It’s not personal, it’s just business. If a marriage’s inconvenient? Just fuck it over, no big. I guess I have to start thinking like you guys.”

“That’s a terrible idea.” Castiel flushes when Dean raises an eyebrow at him. “Just my opinion.”

Dean wasn’t brought up the way Castiel was. Dean is a hunter, his enemies visible and known, his immediate family a support system that’s aided his growth. Dean hadn’t had to navigate the dangers of court life that way Castiel did. Dean reacts boldly, strongly. It is in his nature to rail against the system and its effects.

“Dean,” Castiel says, “I lied to you.”

The green of Dean’s eyes has turned almost gold under the light of the unicorn candle. “’Bout what?”

“When I said…” Castiel ducks his head, appalled at his difficulty in saying this out loud. “The truth is that I’m glad it was you. When it was announced you would take your brother’s place, I was grateful. I know how terrible that is – to be thankful that you got drawn into this, that you’d become their new sacrificial lamb? But I was. I am.”

It’s easier to speak the more he does, the words tumbling out easily. Dean’s expression is inscrutable, but Castiel presses on: “I never wanted this, but when I saw you in the temple on our wedding day, all I could think was – thank God it’s you. I thought to myself that I could bear it, all of it, if it was with you. You, specifically, and no one else in the whole world, and definitely not Sam.”

Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. He could say nothing at all to this and Castiel wouldn’t mind, because it’s enough to have admitted this out loud, baring his own shame in recompense.

“Cas, I’m gonna ask you something,” Dean says quietly. “Tell me straight.”

“Of course.”

“Did you ask them to do this? Your pals at home – did you ask them to challenge our marriage?”

Castiel’s shock must be visible on his face, because Dean nods a little to himself, almost in confirmation. “No, I wouldn’t do that. I may be selfish, but not that selfish. The damage would be more far-reaching than my conscience can bear.”

“Okay.” Dean draws the candle closer and blows the flame out. “Thanks.”

“Did you think I would?” Castiel asks.

“How far would you go to get your normal life back?” Dean asks. “I’d go pretty far, myself.”

“Not that far, I’d think.” Castiel smiles when Dean does. “So… do you want to obey Michael’s summons?”

“Not really. I mean, if this thing falls apart, hell no it’s not gonna be because of me. We need this. But I... I still don’t want to see Michael yet.” Dean winces. “Is that bad?”

“If it is, then I have my share of that wickedness because I don’t want to go either. I’ve composed a letter in response, I was thinking of having Rachel send it immediately.” Castiel fumbles a little in handing it over to Dean. “I’m open to your comments.”

“Geez, this is some fancy stationery,” Dean says with a laugh.

“Does that surprise you, at this point?”

“You got me there.” Dean moves over to the window at the far end of the gallery, leaning against the sill to read under the sunlight. Castiel follows, since Dean didn’t say anything either way, and waits patiently while he goes through the text. Dean says, “Perfectly bitchy and perfectly polite. That’s some mad skills right there.”

“Thank you.”

The atmosphere is not comfortable, but it’s a tremendous improvement over what it’d been before. Castiel is relieved to have said what he needed to, and he thinks Dean is relieved as well, in his own way. Did they resolve anything? Castiel thinks they haven’t, but he also thinks that they don’t have the right shared language to figure this out in any meaningful way.

“I know I act as I though I know everything,” Castiel says. Dean cracks up at that, though he lifts his hands in surrender when he sees Castiel’s face. “But I don’t. I’m making a lot of this up as I go along, just like you are. I see now that you need… boundaries, well-defined boundaries. But I don’t think I’m qualified to know what those are.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. He must have been thinking about this, too. “Which is kind of crap, though, isn’t it? We’re in this together but we’re not in _this_ together. I got to sort myself out… _myself_ , I guess.”

“I do want to help you,” Castiel says earnestly.

“I’m not a problem to be fixed,” Dean says. “And you know what? Neither are you.”

“What?”

“I’m starting to get it. That’s how a lot people treat you, and each other. But it’s not just where you’re from, I can tell you that there’s plenty of that here. Way too much of it, if you ask me, but I’m lucky in that I’ve been able to... push back, I guess, as much as I could. We’re not things, Cas. We’re not _neat_.”

Castiel nods. “That comes back to your dislike of the arrangement. It treats us as things.”

“Yes, exactly.” Dean sags with relief. “We’re not chess pieces, you know what I’m saying?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. “I’m sorry I treated you like a chess piece.”

“Yeah, and I’m sorry I…” Dean trails off, discomfited, and then laughs. “Hey, our first argument, we get to tick that off the to-do list. High five!”

Castiel bemusedly offers his hand, content to accept Dean’s commendable attempt to bring levity into the moment. This is out of _both_ their paygrades, really, though Castiel wasn’t lying when he said that he’s glad of the company.

“What _are_ we, Cas?” Dean asks. “You and me?”

“I have no idea.”

Dean’s mouth quirks, the only twitch on a face that is as tired as Castiel feels. Friends but not friends, husbands but not husbands. They’re both unwilling to be compromised by the other, nor lose their sense of self, but they’re unable to agree on the best methods to accomplish this. What a pair they make.

There is also no anger in this moment, no desire to fight. Castiel feels that it’s only by accident that they’ve stumbled into this odd little neutral zone, where there is compromise without understanding. Yet it’s also certain that this isn’t the end of it – they’re still going to come up against each other’s inconvenient edges in the future. All that remains is how they deal with it.

“I get that you’re trying so hard to make this… work, I guess is the word,” Dean says. “You’re going above and beyond the call of duty with me, I know.”

“Only because that is what is fair,” Castiel says.

Dean nods – not pleased, not unhappy, just in acceptance that this is what it is. He passes the letter back to Castiel and says, “It looks good to me. If you think it’s a good idea, you should send it.”

“All right.” Castiel stands up. “I’ll pass it to Rachel.”

“Hey,” Dean calls out, just as Castiel is about to exit the gallery. “I’ll see you at dinner?”

“Oh.” There’s no reason for Castiel’s heart to leap in his chest. “Oh, yes. I’ll be there.”


	4. Chapter 4

Does it count as a truce if they haven’t agreed to any terms?

The problem here, of course, is that neither of them is clear on what they want out of this marriage. This is understandable, since they’re not its instigators, and had to forcibly crack open the order of their lives to make space for it. It is one thing to define the marriage by what it needs to be for their countries, but what is it when there’s just the two of them? What are they to each other, when one erases the performance they need to make in public?

Castiel almost regrets giving the completed letter to Rachel for sending to Michael. It may be infuriating to be paraded in public, but in some ways he’d rather take that over fumbling through marital solitude with Dean. But that’s a selfish thought, and Castiel casts it aside easily enough.

Castiel even goes down to dinner just as he told Dean he would, though he has no mood for conversation and dreads the prospect. A promise is still a promise, and Castiel tries to focus on the bright side of eating a warm meal with proper utensils.

Though he might’ve spoken too quickly about _utensils_ , because when he arrives at the kitchen there’s a stack of boxes on the table, and the oven and stove are unused.

“Uh, it’s pizza from the town,” Dean says sheepishly. “I asked Virgil to get some. That okay?”

“Of course,” Castiel says. “Why are there five boxes? That’s a lot, even for you.”

“It’s nice to keep some leftover for a snack or whatever,” Dean says. “Sorry, man, I had a hankering and it’s been ages since I had a decent crust.”

“Not a problem, I do like pizza.”

“Cool.” Dean starts disemboweling the pizza boxes. “Any favorite toppings?”

“Not really.” Castiel sits when Dean shoos him into a chair, the plates already laid out on the table. “I like it when the sauce is good?”

“Let’s hope this place is as awesome as I remember.”

The pizza turns out to be quite good. The crust is a little thicker than Castiel would’ve liked, but the toppings are delicious and Dean makes enough noises of approval for the both of them. Five different boxes mean five different types of pizza – apparently Dean wanted to cover his bases – and Castiel gamely samples from each in order to decide which one he likes best.

Dean complements the experience by talking about which toppings used to be better or have become better, plus how the combination of toppings varies from region to region. Castiel nods occasionally to make clear that he’s listening.

It’s not that Castiel doesn’t want to talk – he’s just tired. The mood can’t be forced, and since Dean is up to the task of filling the void, Castiel lets him have it. Castiel may have done plenty of talking since they arrived at Joshua House but he’s not naturally loquacious – to explain something to an end goal isn’t the same as being able to talk naturally. Dean is polite enough not to point out Castiel’s lack of participation, and for that Castiel is thankful.

When they’re done and the leftover pizza (of which there is plenty) is put away, Dean asks, “Do you want to watch something?”

“Sure,” Castiel says.

They’re off to the TV room, where Dean has apparently also asked Virgil to pick up a couple of rentals from town. The covers appear to be more modern films and tv shows, and Dean starts describing some sort of science fiction series that he’s been meaning to catch up on. Castiel settles into a chair to see what’s the fuss about.

The show appears interesting, with colorful characters and sharply-written dialogue, though Dean appears to have picked an episode halfway through the series so Castiel can’t entirely follow the story. Castiel distantly contemplates how this mirrors aspects of his life; people and situations can change so quickly, so carelessly, and oftentimes full understanding is kept beyond Castiel’s reach.

Well, that’s pretty dour.

Castiel doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but he wakes up with Dean standing over him. Dean’s hand is on his shoulder, though it pulls away as soon as Castiel opens his eyes.

“You fell asleep,” Dean says quietly, almost in amusement. “That boring, huh?”

“Not at all, I’m just tired.” Castiel sits up and massages his stiff neck. “Is it finished?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Hey, so I was just thinking I need to go over the language protocols again. I still got the revision sheet you made, so maybe can I get some practice in?”

“Yes, that sounds doable.” Castiel stands up, ready to go to bed. “I will make arrangements for tomorrow.”

* * *

Joshua House has an herbal garden at one corner of the house, facing the remains of the stables. It used to be larger and well-tended but has understandably fallen into neglect despite the gardener’s efforts to maintain it.

It is late in the morning, the sun partway up the sky. Castiel has a large brimmed hat protecting him from most of the rays as he crouches in the dirt, picking at weeds and carefully moving wayward vines to their safe harbors. A trickle of sweat travels past his collar, settling between his shoulder blades before moving downwards.

At the sensation of being watched, Castiel raises his head. He wouldn’t have seen anything if Dean didn’t move just then, slinking back into the shadows of the house.

“Dean?” Castiel sits up, pushing the brim away from his face. “Do you need something?”

There’s a pause, Dean perhaps contemplating the wisdom of confirming his presence, and then he’s stepping forward into the light. He’s still in the same shirts he’d worn at breakfast some hours ago, and his hands rest loosely in the pockets of his jeans. “Nah,” Dean says, “just getting some fresh air.”

“Was Rachel able to answer all your questions?” Castiel asks.

Dean’s face goes strange for a moment – a flash of annoyance, maybe, alongside other things Castiel can’t identify. “Yeah, she was okay.” He clears his throat a little. “I wasn’t expecting her, to be honest.”

“She is more knowledgeable than me about language presentation. I’ve spent so much time away, after all.”

“Shouldn’t you have joined us, then?” Dean asks.

Perhaps. Actually, yes, Castiel should have joined them. Rachel’s neutral-to-disapproving hum echoes in Castiel’s ear – the same sound she’d made when Castiel told her to take charge of Dean’s lesson this morning.

“Are you mad at me?” Dean asks suddenly.

“About what?”

“I don’t know.” Dean shrugs. “That’s why I’m asking. Maybe you were mad and sent Rachel to deal with me.”

“I’m not angry at you.” Castiel looks down at his gardening gloves, thinking. He can feel the space inside him where there _had_ been anger, but that space is hollow now, not unlike how Joshua House had been when they’d first arrived. “I guess I just didn’t have the mood for it.”

“But you’re in the mood for gardening?” Dean asks.

Castiel busies himself unwinding another stretch of weed, pulling it from the earth with a faint yet satisfying rip. “Gardening is simple.”

“Compared to what?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel says sharply. “People. Me. You. Everyone.”

Castiel doesn’t want to look at Dean anymore, so he doesn’t. He goes back to work, stifling a flush of – relief? disappointment? – when Dean eventually leaves, disappearing around the corner of the house, no doubt in search of something more interesting.

Michael should’ve chosen someone else for this. Naomi should’ve chosen someone else; goodness knows she’d have less of a headache if she had. Dean may be all wrong for this arrangement but Castiel isn’t all that better. Sam had the right idea.

Approaching footsteps make Castiel look up.

Dean’s returned, though this time he’s not empty-handed. He’s managed to balance a pizza box on one hand, and is carrying a basket in the other. He enters the herbal garden – the borders of which are marked by the low fence and archway – and heads for the worn-down wooden table at the far side, near the pump. With a strange sort of formality, Dean unloads his wares and spreads a cloth across the tabletop.

“It’s almost lunch,” Dean says loudly.

“A little early,” Castiel replies.

“Who’s going to stop me, the lunch police?” Dean’s movements are efficient, precise. Water container at the corner, paper plates, paper cups – Castiel didn’t even know they had paperware in the house. By the time Dean has prepared the spread, it’s too late for Castiel to protest how unnecessary his effort is.

Castiel gets up and goes the pump, where he removes his gloves and washes his hands. His clothes are beyond helping but he doubts Dean will mind.

They eat in silence. The pizza has been warmed up, though the crusts are not as firm as they’d been last night. Dean picks out the pineapple from the slices before he eats; Castiel is tempted to take them from himself but he feels that would be too intimate.

“Do you have a garden, back home?” Dean asks.

“Yes,” Castiel says with a nod. “A small one, nothing like – nothing as extensive as this.”

“For cooking?”

“I don’t cook.” Castiel winces. “That’s incorrect. I can cook, but I don’t have the skill for it, nor the patience most of the time. What herbs I grow I use for work. It’s not my specialty but I dabble occasionally.”

Dean looks confused. “Dabble?”

Castiel pats his hands together, loosely cleaning them from crumbs and sauce. He moves off the wooden bench towards the plants growing on the trellis, plucking from it a handful of young shoots and vines. He brings them back to the table, where he twists them into a loose ball, Dean watching avidly the entire time. A little spit, discreetly dropped onto a thumb, stick the organic ingredients together, and a couple of hairs from Castiel’s shirt are tied around the shape.

“Do you see this?” Castiel raises the small, twisted ball for Dean to observe.

“Yeah?” Dean says slowly.

Castiel inhales slowly, focuses on the task at hand, and throws the ball away from the table.

It explodes in a pop of green and yellow. No louder than the pop of the tab on a beer can, really, but Dean still yelps, “Whoa!”

“Alchemy,” Castiel says. “That’s what I do.”

“But…” Dean stares at where the small flash had been. “That was just… Those were _normal_ things.”

“Most spells are made out of normal things,” Castiel points out.

“Yeah, but it’s usually – there’s usually fire, silver or blood involved.”

“Blood magic isn’t always external.” Castiel gestures at himself. “It can be internal, if you have the will.”

“That is fucking _cool_ ,” Dean exclaims. “Never seen a Man of Letters do that.”

“For good reason. Anything beyond simple parlor tricks can be dangerous, and the risk on the caster is immense. It’s really not worth it.”

“Still cool, though.” Wonder makes Dean look very young indeed. “Okay, yeah, it’s flashy for the sake of flashy, but you can do something I can’t do and that’s always going to be cool.”

“I can do plenty of things you can’t do,” Castiel says reasonably. “Just as you can do plenty of things that I can’t.”

Dean huffs under his breath. “Yeah, like hunting’s rocket science.”

“I don’t mean _that_ ,” Castiel tells him irritably. “You can fix machinery, you can drive well, you have a sharp eye and sharper memory for subtext and emotional resonance in everything you see. And that’s just touching the surface of the living skills it takes to be independent. Hard skills, soft skills – they’re all valuable.”

Dean stares at him for a moment. “I don’t think I got half of what you just said.”

“No,” Castiel says. “You just say that, but it’s not true. You’re very smart. Anyone who tells you otherwise is trying to control you.”

“Is that how it works where you’re from?”

“Don’t—” Castiel cuts himself off, taking a deep breath. Dean is very good at detouring from topics he doesn’t care for. “Let me finish my lunch.”

Dean makes a non-committal sound. “Then back to gardening?”

“Would you like to do something?” Castiel asks.

“No, no, I don’t want to take you away from your gardening.”

“Do you want to go into town? Are you restless? Is that it?” Castiel stands up. “I will have a shower and accompany you.”

“No, I…” Dean swallows, almost nervously. “You prefer being direct, right?”

“Very much. What do you want?”

“I, uh…” Dean pauses, blinking rapidly and licking his lips. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

Castiel makes a face. “That’s not a finite thing I can give you.”

“Cas, you’re not listening,” Dean says. “I’m asking you to be direct right back at me. _I_ don’t want to be a bother to _you_. Am I bothering you right now?”

Castiel sits down. He shouldn’t be able to bear the way Dean’s looking him as though he’s a bomb waiting to explode, but he does, and he can. The gardens are quiet, and the grounds beyond are an empty space that serve to underscore their isolation. If Castiel can’t admit this here, he can’t admit it anywhere else.

“I’m just so angry,” Castiel says quietly. “Not at you – at the situation. I know that’s nothing new, but I think I’ve been doing quite well not taking it out on you. But the fact is, the more I know about you, the angrier I get. You should’ve run with your brother.”

“What, and left you to get hitched with someone worse?” Dean smiles a little, trying to joke. “You know I’m the best we got. Uh, second best, after Sam.”

“They don’t deserve you,” Castiel says. “Michael doesn’t deserve you.”

“That really bugs you,” Dean says wonderingly. “Like, _really_ bugs you.”

Castiel scowls. “I would be worried if it didn’t.”

“No, I mean…” Dean rubs a hand against his temple before remembering he was eating pizza a minute ago and now has tomato sauce in his hair. He sighs. “What do you like to do for fun?”

“Are we changing the topic?” Castiel asks.

“No,” Dean says. “What do you like to do for fun? To let loose?”

That sounds so much like something Balthazar would say. “I’m a simple person, Dean. I read, I transcribe old works, I go to museums.”

“What about when you’re really stressed from, I don’t know, grading papers? I’m sure you have colleagues you don’t like – bosses you don’t like. Hell, you totally…” Dean stops suddenly, eyes lighting up with some sort of realization. “Oh. Oh yeah.”

“What?”

“Come with me.” Dean stands up and gestures for Castiel to follow. “Leave the pizza, just – just follow me.”

Castiel has no idea what’s going on but he does stand up, following as Dean winds his way out of the herbal garden, into the clearing just beyond the fence. The house is to Castiel’s back but he can almost feel it watching them, judging them (him).

“The way I see it, you’ve been holding it in,” Dean says. This is a leader’s stance, a leader’s voice. Or a big brother’s voice. Perhaps it’s the same thing. “You’ve been switched on since you got here – taking charge, keeping things under control, and I think…” He regards Castiel thoughtfully. “I think that’s something you feel _have_ to do, because you’re more prepared than I am. But it’s not something you want, and that’s gotta get to you after a while. I know what you’re going through, believe me, I do, and it’s gonna get under your skin in a bad way.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying. Are you implying that I can’t handle this?” Castiel straightens up. “I’m not weak, Dean.”

“I’m not saying you’re weak,” Dean says calmly. “I’m saying that you’re not alone in this. Take a swing at me.”

“No,” Castiel says flatly.

“Trust me, you’re not gonna hurt me. Just swing.”

“No.”

“Come on, man!” Dean shoves at Castiel’s shoulder. It’s not a hard push, his fingers only grazing him, but the touch _incites_ , making Castiel’s hackles rise. “When Naomi told you you had to get married, what did you do?”

“I didn’t run,” Castiel says.

“Okay, yeah, you obeyed, but only so far,” Dean says. “You’re a sneaky son-of-a-bitch and took something for yourself, shoving through all the risks and all the dangers because you needed to do _something_ , to rebel in whatever secret, private way you could – some way that wouldn’t hurt anybody, or the big picture. You got laid, and you know what? You deserved it.”

Castiel’s face grows warm, part from embarrassment and part from shock that Dean is speaking of this so plainly. “What is your point?”

“The point is that you get mad and you _do_ something about it!” Dean exclaims, practically beaming now. “I know you got it in you, you got all that frustration and boiling things wriggling inside you, and… The only person you can take it out on here is me, and you won’t do that.”

Castiel stares at Dean, and then nods stiffly in pained agreement.

“If it were anyone else, you’d be all over their ass. I get it, man. Thing is, you’re watching out for me, and I gotta watch out for you. That’s the only way this is gonna work.” Dean opens his arms. “Take a swing.”

“That last part makes no sense.”

“Fine.” Dean marches back to the garden, casting his critical eye around before picking up a pair of wooden handles that had mostly likely been previously used for rakes or shovels. When he returns he tosses one at Castiel, who only catches it out of courtesy. “You know how this works.”

Castiel adjusts his grip on the old wood. “We need to stretch first.” He gasps when Dean pokes at him with his handle, making him step back.

“Yeah, there we go,” Dean says.

“We were just eating,” Castiel says through gritted teeth. “We’re going to get cramps—”

The slam of wood against wood rents the air. Castiel gapes at Dean, who would’ve given him a concussion if Castiel hadn’t raised his piece defensively. Or maybe not – Dean has a hunter’s reflexes, and he would’ve stopped himself in time. Probably. Maybe.

“Or would you rather come at me with boxing gloves?” Dean says. “A punching bag doesn’t hit back.”

“That’s meditative,” Castiel says sharply. “I don’t do it as an alternative to _hurting_ someone.”

“You’re not hurting anyone.” Dean draws his stick back only to swing it around again, aimed at Castiel’s knees. He grins when Castiel blocks this one, too, and then twirls his staff. Show-off. “I doubt you could hurt me even if you wanted to.”

“I’d never want to.”

“Never say never, Cas.”

“Why would you say that? Why would you—” Castiel almost misses the next blow, deflecting it before it can strike him in the stomach.

Something inside Castiel unfurls. The exertion in his arms, the satisfaction of holding something solid, the challenging gleam in Dean’s eye – all of these coalesce and light up something inside Castiel that makes him swing back. He swings and thrusts and parries – moving with neither finesse nor style, because in a world where there is so much that he _can’t_ do, this is something that he _can_.

Because Dean is ready for him. Dean is smiling at him, pleased instead of pitying, the green of his eyes cutting sharp into Castiel.

“That all you got?” Dean challenges.

No, it isn’t. Time shifts, a blur of movement and noise and sweat as Castiel’s body takes what it’s been offered, pouring all his anger and frustration into the strike of wood on wood.

Through it all Dean nods at Castiel and responds easily, shifting from one foot to another as he anticipates and receives the next blow. Through the haze of unexpected adrenaline Castiel registers that this is familiar to Dean, that this must be some kind of stress-relieving ritual – among hunters, or his friends, or even family. Dean is trying to share something with him. Dean is trying to help him.

Dean shouldn’t have to.

“Fuck,” Castiel says, chest heaving. He hates being helpless, _feeling_ helpless. It’s a learned hate, knitted into his bones alongside the wisdom of knowing when to be silent. Dean must be able to see this in Castiel – or if he didn’t before, he certainly does now.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Dean calmly.

“Fuck,” Castiel says again. He looks down at the handle, the wood splintered and cracked where it’s been maltreated. He doesn’t have to look at his hand to know that his skin is scratched, perhaps broken in places. That means there’s blood, plus salt from sweat and his unclean hands.

Dean isn’t supposed to see him like this. Castiel is supposed to be smarter, better, more reliable. Dean is supposed to be able to count on him to have a handle on the situation and bring them both through it successfully. How useful is he now?

Castiel yells. It’s an undignified sound but it serves its purpose, pulling his reserves of energy up, through the coil in his stomach, down his arm, and _out_.

He throws the stick off and away from Dean, where it explodes mid-air.

Dean yells in surprise, and then he’s yelling for a different reason, rushing forward and dropping to his knees where Castiel has fallen to the ground.

“Dude, the fuck!” Dean says.

Castiel sits up and holds his arm out in front of him. The whole limb is roaring in protest, arteries and veins lit up with the magical rebound, muscles taut from the expulsed energy. Castiel says, with an attempt at humor, “And that’s why we don’t use that kind of magic.”

“Oh man.” Dean pulls off his outer shirt, wrapping it around Castiel’s arm with a swiftness that belies how often he does this. “Oh man, Cas, I’m—”

“If you say you’re sorry I’m going to do it again.” Castiel glares at Dean, though his vision is annoyingly blurry at the moment. “I don’t know why you bother.”

Dean’s mouth thins into a hard line. Castiel expects a protest or an explanation, and he definitely _doesn’t_ expect the way Dean’s hand lands behind Castiel’s neck, pulling him against Dean’s chest for – oh, a hug. It’s definitely a hug, as comfortable as can be managed with Dean very carefully cradling Castiel’s hurt arm away from their bodies.

“I understand what you were trying to do,” Castiel says, resisting the urge to pull away. “You sought an emotional release with this exercise, but I’m not like you, Dean.”

“Don’t sweat it.” Dean doesn’t let go, though.

If Castiel’s relaxes his neck just so, he can press his temple against Dean’s shoulder, which is a firm shoulder, a strong shoulder. Dean’s hand slides down a little to find the base of Castiel’s neck, squeezing gently. Dean smells of sweat and pizza. He is filthy. Castiel’s body should not be leaching tension by his touch alone, as though Dean is some sort of earthing circuit.

“I can’t be your burden,” Castiel says quietly.

“Yeah, like I’m any better, dumbass,” Dean replies. “I’m the newbie here, remember?”

“That’s not your fault. You didn’t have a choice.”

“Fucking Christ, Cas, would you listen to yourself? There’s two of us in this. When I’m not feeling so good, you try to do something about it. When you’re not feeling so good, it’s my turn.”

“I didn’t do a good job for you,” Castiel says.

“Not true,” Dean says. “I told you you’ve been keeping me from bouncing off the walls here.”

“But I’ve also been the cause of your stress—”

“Stop.” Dean’s hand moves, rubbing circles into the space between Castiel’s shoulder blades. Castiel sighs, mostly by accident. “Just _let_ me, okay?”

Castiel read somewhere that the reason some animals like to sit inside boxes is because it ties to the instinct that craves protection and safety. Dean isn’t a box, but with his chest against Castiel’s front, his breath on Castiel’s ear and his arm wrapped firmly around Castiel’s side, the effect still holds. There is a lack of judgment in Dean’s doing this – there are no jokes, no grumbling. Dean is quiet and patient.

Castiel closes his eyes against Dean’s shoulder, silently willing him not to move. He doesn’t. “Don’t tell anyone about this,” Castiel says.

Dean huffs a laugh. “’Course not.”

* * *

The pizza is cold by the time they get back to it, but it tastes like mana in Castiel’s mouth. Dean chortles at Castiel’s enthusiasm in gorging it down, but it’s not like Castiel can be bothered to be embarrassed by that _now_.

Castiel also figures that since it was Dean’s bright idea in the first place, Dean can do whatever he wants with Castiel’s arm, massaging it to unlock the muscle and soothing it with a damp cloth. Dean’s hands are blessedly firm and business-like, none of that nervous feather-like touches that Castiel finds infuriating. Dean is focused on finding the knots and working them firmly, and soon enough Castiel can move his fingers again.

“Is it like doing a banishing spell?” Dean asks curiously. “But instead of banishing another living creature, you’re… banishing yourself from an object?”

Castiel nods, pleased. “Very good. Yes, that is accurate.”

Dean grins at him. “So the body absorbs the active force, and the recoil is what you send out.”

“I’m not going to teach you,” Castiel says.

“I didn’t ask,” Dean says with a laugh. “I’m pretty happy with old-fashioned salt and silver. Oh hey! I think I got the radio working again. After this you wanna get cleaned up and chill in the study?”

Castiel nods. “All right.”

They return to the house after finishing off their meal and clearing up the garden. Castiel has a shower, relieved for the warm water and chance to scrub off the grime of the morning. His stiff right arm means that he has to rely on his left hand more – which brings into view the marriage tattoo that Castiel hasn’t noticed much.

Both of them wear long-sleeved shirts pretty much all the time, even in the house, so Castiel tends to forget the tattoo’s there. He looks at it now, turning his forearm to watch the letters shift under the water droplets. Dean’s all but said that he feels the presence of the tattoo acutely. Castiel tries to imagine how it makes Dean feel – if it conjures dread, ownership, resignation. Or a reminder of what he can’t have anymore.

Dressing up after the shower takes a little longer than necessary, which means that by the time Castiel gets to the study, Dean is already there. He has new shirts and jeans, his hair is slightly damp, and his hand is resting on top of the newly-fixed radio.

“You okay?” Dean asks. “You need a splint?”

“No, it’s fine.” Castiel demonstrates by rolling his elbow. “Just feels like a cramp. I’ll probably need to consume more liquids to compensate.”

“Sit your ass down,” Dean says, when Castiel starts to move to the door. “I’ll get something.”

Castiel sits down in the chair, watching in bemusement as Dean leaves. Alone in the room, he turns to the radio, noting that the wooden frame and knobs are all gleaming from being newly polished. The music is faint so Castiel carefully adjusts the volume, filling the room with an inoffensive Top 40 tune, though the sound is marred by static.

When Dean comes back – carrying a tray with him no less – he confirms that this is the best quality reception he could get. “Maybe it’s ‘cause we’re on top of the hill.”

“Could it be the antennae?” Castiel asks.

“It’s hard to tell, but it’s possible.” Dean’s brought a selection from the kitchen – water, juice and beer, plus some snacks. Castiel takes some juice, Dean the beer. “If the TV was working I’d be able to tell.”

“The TV isn’t working anymore?”

“I mean, if the TV was getting regular channels,” Dean says. “We can watch videos, no problem, but there’s no reception.”

“Are those letters?” Castiel asks.

“Oh, right,” Dean says apologetically, taking the small stack from the tray and passing them to Castiel. “Arrived this morning, Liz passed them to me downstairs.”

Castiel’s reasonably certain that he didn’t wince at the mention of their cook’s name. Castiel’s also not going to think about how he has a better understanding now of how physical contact helps. A hug from Dean had been… a relief. It’s natural that Dean, being the more emotional one between there, would need more. Castiel’s not going to think about this any further. It’s none of his business.

“A reply from Michael,” Castiel says, showing Dean the gold-rimmed envelope. “Let us hope.”

“Crossing my fingers,” Dean says.

The letter from Michael is calm, with no threats that Castiel can immediately detect. It’s shorter than the letter it’s responding to, but it mentions a few of Castiel’s salient points and acknowledges them, especially the importance in behaving as though all is proper.

“He’s given us leave to stay here for the duration of our honeymoon.”

“That’s good, right?” Dean says. “Why do you sound worried?”

“He’s giving in too easily.” Castiel passes the letter over to Dean to read. “There’s no negotiation, and he’s not proposing any alternatives.”

Dean frowns. “What do you think that means?”

“The situation may be more fraught than we know.” Castiel leans back in his chair and exhales slowly. “There may be other matters on his plate, leaving us lower down his priorities.”

“Good for us, but not necessarily good for everyone else.” Dean takes a slow, thoughtful swig of his beer. “Okay then.”

Chilling in the study apparently includes Dean’s deciding to teach Castiel to play poker. Not that Dean seems to have planned it that way – it starts with him bringing out a deck of cards he’d found elsewhere in the house, and asking Castiel what the artwork means. It’s a custom deck using heraldry images and other symbolism, which means it probably belonged to one of the previous owners of the house.

“Card games are rife at court,” Castiel says.

“Seriously?” Dean seems thrilled by this. “You know, the more you talk about the place the more it sounds like a hive of scum and villainy.”

“That might actually be apt.” Castiel watches Dean shuffle, his fingers performing deft magic too quick for Castiel’s eye to see. “Michael’s been trying to cut that down, though. If there are to be vices in the royal household he prefers them to be his own.”

“The King’s not a gambling man?”

“More like he’s lost too many times to have a taste for it.” Castiel smiles at Dean’s snicker. “The stories go that he could only tolerate losing such games to his brother. At least, until the stakes got too high for both of them.”

“Lucifer, yeah.” Dean cuts the cards and starts dealing. “He got shut away in a tower like you did.”

Castiel huffs under his breath. “I wasn’t shut away in a tower.”

“Dude, I don’t even need to say that I’m not being literal, because it’s actually _literal_.”

“Just don’t mention that to Michael,” Castiel says. “It’s a touchy subject.”

“What, his bro doing the Rapunzel, or you?”

“Both,” Castiel says. “I don’t know why I’m compelled to tell you this repeatedly. You know very well we’re not supposed to provoke people, but the way you – that mischievous glint in your eye is worrying.”

“Nah, I’ll be too busy winning everyone’s dough to care about provoking,” Dean says. “Thanks for the idea, Cas.”

They play a few rounds of various different games. Most of the ones Dean knows have an equivalent that Castiel’s familiar with, though the number of continental variations on poker is just staggering. Why they need so many, Castiel has no idea – maybe their response to competition is to increase the number of things they can be the best _at_.

Castiel and Dean don’t wager real money as they play. They use a points system which Castiel keeps track of with paper and pencil, leaving it to Dean to contemplate what the winner may gain at the end of the day. Castiel is rusty with these kinds of games but he picks it up with Dean’s guidance and useful tips. Along the way he notes Dean’s tells and observes his playing strategies; no doubt Dean is doing the same and finding it illuminating.

The radio provides background noise throughout, the advertisements and DJ’s over-the-top enunciation very different from what Castiel’s used to. There’s more energy and excitement in their radio stations, as there are in their movies and television shows. It makes Castiel think of children – nay, teenagers – still exuberant with opportunity and discovery. It’s nice.

There are still other surprises, though.

“ _…and still at number one after three weeks is Something Profound, the anthem written for Dean and Castiel’s wedding, whom I’m sure appreciate the sentiment since they’re still on their honeymoon, shacked up in their little love nest on the coast…_ ”

Dean’s face takes on an interesting shade, eyes wide with panic. Castiel gives him a rueful look, and then reaches over to change the channel. Unfortunately this is easier said than done, and Castiel has to turn quite far down the frequency to find something that isn’t static.

“You didn’t have to,” Dean says sheepishly.

“It’s already done,” Castiel says simply. “That’s one good thing about staying here – we’re sequestered from the circus.”

“Did they have to write a _song_?” Dean groans.

“I’m sure if ask we’ll be able to get some royalties.”

“Ugh.” Dean’s dismay shouldn’t be this entertaining. “Couldn’t it have at least been a _good_ song? Something with a little more bass, little less warbling?”

“I doubt they had much to go on for inspiration, besides the whole big white wedding for childhood sweethearts.”

Dean is a little quiet for the next hand, occasionally glancing over at the radio as though he expects it to drop another present on him. When he finally does speak, it’s to say tentatively, “Did you ever want a big white wedding? Uh, if it’s okay for me to ask.”

“It’s okay for you to ask,” Castiel says. “And no. Weddings – marriages in general – have a certain unsavory context for me. As Michael’s cousin, he would’ve had say over if I could get married, and to whom. My plan had always been to live in sin, if I found someone.”

That gets a smile out of Dean. “Of course. You totally would.”

“How about you? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“I never thought about it.” Dean sounds a little embarrassed, which is odd because he’s the one who brought this up. It makes Castiel recall a conversation not that long ago – even it feels like _ages_ ago at the same time – where Dean mentioned familial interference in such matters. “It’s always been something that happens to other people. I know that’s weird.”

“No, it isn’t,” Castiel says.

“Of course it is,” Dean protests. “Now you’re gonna ask if someone broke my heart and ruined me.”

“Sure, maybe someone did break your heart. Or maybe you broke someone else’s heart. Or maybe both your hearts were broken for reasons beyond your control, and you’re keeping a… a _bookmark_ of sorts inside you, just in case you can find a way to return to them. Or—” Castiel catches Dean’s gaze meaningfully, “—maybe there’s no story at all, and marriage is simply something that never felt relevant to you. All would be valid, and none would make you ‘weird’.”

Dean’s expression is contemplative. “Kinda like how sex was not relevant to you?”

Castiel thinks. “Yes. That makes sense as an equivalent.”

“You could’ve found someone, though,” Dean says.

“Or I could’ve not found anyone at all and continued to live the life I’d chosen for myself,” Castiel replies. “I wasn’t _unhappy_.”

“I wasn’t either,” Dean replies. “I mean, hunting is what it is, and I’m great at it but… people kept telling me there had to be more. I have no idea what the hell the crew’s gonna think about _this_ when I get back.”

“Will they believe you capable of it?” Castiel says.

“Capable of pining after a goddamned sweetheart since I was a teenager?” Dean scoffs. His gaze moves to the middle distance as he properly thinks about this, and his face twists up in horror. “Fuck nuggets, they might actually buy it.”

Castiel really shouldn’t laugh.

“Jesus,” Dean moans and covers his face. “They’re gonna think all my manwhoring was to cover up my hurt _feelings_.”

“I’m so sorry, Dean.”

“Shut your face,” Dean says with a laugh. “You broke my heart, you asswipe.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Castiel replies, shoulders shaking with mirth. “I was young and foolish, and I never believed such a worldly, strapping continental young man would ever remember me from a chance encounter.”

“Damn straight, I’m strapping,” Dean mutters.

The situation in Joshua House doesn’t – and _can’t –_ return to its Day Zero baseline, but the air within has shifted, a different sense of expectation settling over them like a veil. It doesn’t feel dangerous – if they can laugh about this now, perhaps somewhere down the road they’ll be able to figure out the other, more difficult parts.

Dean’s exercise may not have functioned the way he’d hoped, but _something_ had worked. Castiel can’t begrudge his moment of vulnerability before Dean, not with how the pendulum in Castiel’s mind has swung back into determination that they _can_ do this.

* * *

Castiel’s in better spirits the next morning, but he isn’t prepared for what greets him in the kitchen. Dean’s head whips around when Castiel enters, though it quickly snaps back to the focus on his work.

“You’re cooking,” Castiel says. “Why are you cooking?”

“I wanted to.” Dean wields the skillet expertly, flipping what appears to be a pancake onto the other side. “I used to, uh… We moved around a lot, growing up. When I was old enough Mom and Dad would take the missions and I’d man the fort.”

“Which included cooking for yourself and your brother,” Castiel surmises.

“Bingo.” Dean’s even wearing an apron, tied back with a bow that rests in the gentle dip of his lower back. “It’s not all that different from fixing things. You got the parts, you can figure out how they go together.”

Castiel should offer to help but he hangs back instead, compelled to watch Dean. His movements behind a stove are as at ease as they were wielding a makeshift staff, and Castiel is struck by a vivid image of a young Dean masterfully taking charge of a temporary kitchen while an even younger Sam watches. It’s not an image Castiel would’ve associated with a hunter, but he has to admit that he doesn’t know any hunters beyond this sample size of one. That said, Castiel wouldn’t be surprised if there is no hunter in the world like Dean.

“You know this means you have to eat everything I feed you,” Dean says over his shoulder. “’Cause if you don’t it’ll hurt my feelings.”

“I shall do my best,” Castiel says.

The general atmosphere is agreeable and the food even more so. Where Dean has shied away from Castiel’s praise in the past he gleefully accepts now as they eat, making finger gestures of satisfaction in the air when Castiel says that these are fluffiest pancakes he’s ever had in his life.

“Okay, so I was thinking about our coat of arms.” Dean moves an empty plate to the center of the table, tapping it on different places as he speaks. “I was thinking we could take four symbols – well, maybe five – but the main four in quarters across the shield. I’ll take one side, you’ll take the other, and the top half will be things we’ve inherited from our family line, and the bottom half will be something personal.”

“That makes sense.” Castiel continues eating while Dean picks through his food for pieces he uses to represent said symbols, arranging them on the plate. “There is something you wish to choose for yourself?”

“Uh, no, I haven’t decided yet, but… it feels like something we _should_ keep for ourselves. I think that’s important.”

Castiel nods. “I agree.”

“So I went through the library looking for a record book or something. You said there are some symbols we’re not allowed to use, right?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. Dean has been doing _research_. “I hadn’t looked for a record myself, but even if there was one I doubt it’d be the up-to-date. I’ll ask Rachel to assist.”

“Awesome.” Dean spears a pancake with his fork and takes precise bites out of the piece. His purpose is to make a specific shape, which he then places on the top left corner of the plate. “Okay, so that’s one of mine. Bacon bit is your tree. Pear as a placeholder?”

Castiel moves his chair further up the table, craning his neck to get a good look at Dean’s arrangement. “You’ve chosen to have your deer facing inward? I think it balances the tree opposite it, but what is your intention?”

Dean stops poking at the pear and turns to Castiel with a thoughtful frown. He says, in a very level voice, “When my dad proposed to my mom, both of them knew the family heads would say no. It’s pretty liberal these days but marriages between the old Houses used to be as full of bullshit this side of the border as well. I mean, the Campbells are all about pedigree even though they don’t use the word. The Winchesters are not so bad, but Grandpa Henry got his book in a binder when Dad wanted to go into hunting. But my parents didn’t care about all of that, they just… wanted to go for it. So they did.”

Dean pauses for a moment, the small smile on his face almost too fragile despite the casualness of his storytelling. Castiel almost feels like he’s intruding on this moment, as ridiculous as that sounds.

“They both assumed that they’d lose their inheritances,” Dean continues, “but the first thing they bought together was a ‘67 Impala as a… um…”

“As a corporeal icon of their choosing each other?” Castiel tries.

“Yeah, like that, yes.” Dean clears his throat. “So. Because my parents are _completely lame_ , they put it in their badge.”

Castiel waits for the rest, but that seems to be the punchline. He looks at the piece of pancake, the little animal head facing to the right. Dean fingertips brush the edge of the plate, almost restlessly. Castiel slowly looks back up at Dean.

“That is a terrible play on words,” Castiel says.

“I _know_!” Dean exclaims. “I swear to God, they think it’s the most hilarious thing in the whole world, not even kidding. An impala, like, an _Impala_ , get it? Sam thinks it’s meaningful and shit, but that’s cause he’d somehow missed Mom’s jokes about frolicking in the forest, do _not_ ask me to elaborate, okay, Cas?”

“Didn’t you say that you have a ’67 Impala vehicle?” Castiel asks. “Is it the same one?”

Dean is surprised, though it wasn’t all that long ago that he’d mentioned having that car. “Yeah, it’s the same one. They, uh… They gave her to me when I left Lawrence.”

“That must be a tremendous responsibility,” Castiel says in amazement. “Considering her historical value.”

Dean’s grin is unexpected. “Duh.”

“Yet she isn’t with you. How does that work?”

“I got some friends I trust minding her for me. I’ll get to see her soon, though, right?”

“I believe you will make it happen.” Castiel studies the shape of the innocuous pancake animal, and tries to remember the sketch he’d made of its true form. “So the impala – the animal – is a representation of your parents’ choosing each other. It means freedom.”

Dean smiles. “Yeah.”

“Then I won’t need the wings,” Castiel says. A flash of something unidentifiable passes over Dean’s face. “It’s enough for your impala to be on our badge. Excellent. I will take some time to think about my personal symbol as well.”

“Try to think of something classy, ’cause you’re gonna have to deal with whatever I pick for myself.”

“Why do I have to be the classy one?” Castiel protests. “Why can’t I be the rude one?”

“Because I’m the arm candy, remember?” Dean grins at him. “You gotta let me get my way _sometimes_.”

“I don’t think that’s how this works,” Castiel says.

“What, you got past experience being married?”

“Do you have past experience being arm candy?”

Dean laughs. “Look at this face. What do you think?”

“Looks aren’t everything,” Castiel tells him. “Why can’t the most handsome person in the world be a monk?”

“A _monk_.” Dean makes a rude sound and leans back in his chair, legs splayed out in front of him. “Hey, monkshood. That’d make a bitchy personal symbol, wouldn’t it?”

“It’d be provocative.” Castiel cocks his head thoughtfully. “You know what monkshood is?”

“Hey, you’re not the only who knows all sorts of useful crap,” Dean says. “You gotta know what you’re using when you’re out on the hunt, right? Sure, the Men of Letters design most of our weapons and whatever, but if you don’t know the deets of what you’re doing you might as well be waving a loaded gun into a crowd.”

“That’s not standard operating procedure?” Castiel asks curiously.

“You’d think it would be, yeah?” Dean shakes his head, grumbling under his breath. “Hunters, we are… Well, we’re known as the brawn for a reason. Though Grandpa Samuel wouldn’t use that word – he likes to call us the executors.”

“Executors of the Council’s will,” Castiel says.

“Someone’s got to be down on the ground. Most of ‘em think that means taking the orders as they are and just doing ‘em, which is pretty much a stinking pile of bullshit because of ‘em don’t even _know_ what’s happening on the ground in the first place. Some of us – some hunters, I mean – prefer not to have to make the judgment calls. It’s easier to _do_ when the responsibility for _doing_ belongs to someone else. Which is also bullshit.” Dean grimaces. “Sorry, man, I got uh… I got feelings. What were we talking about? Personal symbol?”

“No, those feelings are important.” Castiel taps his fork against his thumb thoughtfully. “You should keep a mental note of them as you contemplate your symbol. You could get something to reflect that part of you, if you want. I’ll ask Rachel for the peerage guide. Shall we go through the library later as well?”

“And back to the gallery, too,” Dean says. “Might get some inspiration, right?”

Castiel nods. “Sounds like a plan.” He continues to eat his breakfast and watch Dean play with his food, and tries not to be overwhelmed with how this is the first that Dean’s shared anything substantial about his life. Dean doesn’t owe him anything, Castiel _knows_ this, but gratitude swells inside him anyway.

* * *

Dean seems… looser. Easier. Relieved to have cracked that egg open so their expectations have fallen out where they may be seen. Said expectations may not tally up neatly between them, but they can build on them and use them readjust the way they navigate around each other.

Castiel feels better equipped to handle this, too. Through the small revelations that happen in between more meals, movies and ‘chilling’ around the house, Castiel registers that Dean does indeed know the importance of maintaining emotional distance, it’s just that he executes it differently from how Castiel does. Yet for all of this Castiel can hardly be expected to know of all of Dean within a few weeks; frankly he suspects that there are parts of Dean he will never know even if he had years to learn them. This is okay. Castiel must remember that, and not take it for granted.

Dean keeps surprising him, too. He may not have thought about getting married but he takes it more seriously than Castiel thinks anyone has given him credit. His parents certainly don’t, since they’d chosen Sam over him, and the letters they send to Dean bear this out.

“I don’t think they believe me,” Dean says.

This late afternoon they’re in the study, their newest batch of mail spread out on the table. Dean sounds so forlorn that Castiel puts down his letter from Anna (a new one, in which she’s heard about the marriage and is appalled) to listen properly.

“They don’t believe you about what?” Castiel asks.

“They don’t believe I’m doing okay. They’re more freaked about the communication cut-off than I am, it sounds like.”

“Do they have reason not to believe you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Castiel shrugs. “Do you a history of omitting the truth to avoid upsetting your loved ones?”

Dean gives Castiel a slow, disbelieving look. “You did not just pull that on me.”

“I didn’t accuse you,” Castiel says. “I just asked.”

“Can you write to them?” Dean asks, stubbornly changing the subject. “Tell ‘em that I’m on my best behavior and we’re not in danger of clawing each other’s eyes out?”

“They’re worried about you. They just married you off to a stranger, after all.”

“Didn’t seem a problem when they were marrying off _Sam_ ,” Dean says sardonically, which is the most critical Castiel’s heard him speak of his parents, and is a point that Castiel has no argument for. “Just tell ‘em I’m doing okay, okay?”

“All right. Would they believe me, though?”

“It can’t hurt,” Dean says. “And knowing them, they’d be happy to get some written proof to use, if things go sideways.”

“That is a… pragmatic attitude to take.”

Dean’s smirk is a little unhappy, but Castiel honestly has no problem writing to his in-laws at Dean’s request. “I’m going down first,” Dean says. “I’ll buzz you when dinner’s ready.”

Castiel waves Dean off and starts work on his letters, the radio still playing from its spot near the window.

He starts with the letter to Anna. He urges her not to worry, explaining that he has things under control and providing assurance Dean is nothing like the marriage prospects they’d feared. He doesn’t mention the cipher Anna has put in her letter; Castiel hasn’t decoded it yet, but he suspects it’s a name or geographical location, possibly a helpful hint on where Castiel may find sanctuary if he decides to flee.

As for the letter to Dean’s parents, there’s a great deal for Castiel to write about. He opens with a polite, informal greeting before moving to the general situation of the house. It’s been a quiet few days on top of the relatively quiet few weeks, certainly. There’s no need to tell them about their arguments, so Castiel simplifies it into mentions of some mild moments of being at loggerheads, which were soothed over by diplomacy.

The words flow easily. Castiel writes about Dean’s impressive absorption of his history and culture, Dean’s hunter career having laid down the foundation for learning new things. Although Dean has a little more to learn about the protocols of presentation at court, and will perhaps face the challenge of minding his slang, Castiel has no doubt that he will cut an impressive figure before anyone who meets him.

Castiel stops writing and rereads what he’d just written. He winces at how ridiculous it sounds laid out like that – as though Castiel’s goal is PR instead of truth. Perhaps he should be more casual.

He writes: _Dean thinks poorly of the video collection in this house, and although he wouldn’t ask, I think he’d appreciate new movies or other media content you could share with him. Dean is restless, urging for action and usefulness, but I think he has found a way to channel that energy into this new role that he has been given. He refers to it as a ‘job’, and is determined to do the best that he can in it. The standards he places upon himself are exemplary, even if I don’t always agree with them._

That sounds worse. Just imagining Dean reading that makes Castiel a little embarrassed.

The intercom interrupts that line of thought, dinner finally ready. Castiel bundles up his letters for safekeeping up in his room before going down – one thing about living in this house is that he’s getting plenty of exercise, that’s for sure.

Once Castiel arrives in the kitchen, the first thing that Dean says to him is a slightly nervous, “For the record, this is no big deal. I just wanted to, okay?”

Castiel moves to the table. He has no critical comment about Dean’s wish to utilize their kitchen, for it is enough for Dean to derive personal satisfaction and establish normal activities in a foreign place.

This time, though, Castiel freezes up a little. “What’s this?”

“I, uh, I asked Rachel for help,” Dean says. “She got me the recipe, and I – I couldn’t get all the ingredients, Virgil said that they don’t have the right variants here, or something, so I had to improvise some.”

It’s a rice dish, dotted various summer colors thanks to its ingredients of meat, cheese, tomatoes and other herbs. The smell is rich, traveling up Castiel’s nostrils and tickling the dusty memory centers of his brain. “I used to eat this growing up.”

“Oh,” Dean says in surprise. “I, um, I saw a description in one of the books we were going through, and the country dishes just sounded so interesting, you know? I’ve never tried ‘em myself so I thought I’d give it a shot, see what the end result would be like.”

Dean doesn’t know. Couldn’t know. It’s not his fault that Castiel’s almost shaking, excitement balling deep in his gut because how long has it been? Village stew, although it isn’t a stew at all, it’s a poor man’s recipe made of leftovers found in the mountain towns cut off from the rich supplies of the coastal regions. Anna never cared for this style of cooking but there was that lady – oh God, what was her name – in Uriel’s household who used to make this for Castiel on the days when he didn’t have to take meals with the family.

“So you hungry or not?” Dean asks.

Castiel never bothered to learn how to make this, his culinary skills too poor to bother, and over time he’d forgotten about it entirely. As he sits down at the table he can almost smell the old manor kitchen with its burnt husk tang, the oven that at the time seemed so big as to fit an entire person, the big wooden crates that held water and beer groaning in a corner.

Dean ladles the rice out into plates, looking mildly alarmed by whatever expression Castiel has on his face.

“I haven’t had this in so long,” Castiel says. “You couldn’t have known, but… thank you.”

“You haven’t tried it yet,” Dean says.

“It doesn’t matter.” Castiel sits down and scoops up a spoonful into his mouth.

It’s wrong. The tomatoes are too sweet, the rice too soft, there’s none of the oily edge. Castiel closes his eyes, disappointment like a fist squeezing his chest as he chews and swallows. The taste is wrong at almost every side, it’s a perversion of a memory and Castiel feels sick, like someone has put their fingers in his head and messed up all its contents.

“Is it okay?” Dean asks.

Castiel averts his face. “Yes, it’s excellent.”

“Hey, you don’t have to—”

“Don’t look at me,” Castiel says tightly. “Keep talking, and don’t look at me.”

There’s a pause, during which goodness knows what Dean must be thinking. Then he says, “So I asked if Rachel would go shopping with me but she said that she’d rather scrub the toilets which was actually kinda rude but she’s also kinda right, it’s not her job description. And she said that it would look weird if I went shopping in town with _her_ , like what would people think, right? So I made a list and gave it to Virgil. I think the guy was relieved to have something to do, now that I think about it.”

One of the ways that Castiel is able to live the life he has is that he only attaches himself to ideas, not things. Oh, he treasures his teaching career and opportunities for learning, but the specifics of them – his tenure, his books, his apartment – he could let go if necessary to pursue alternatives. A life of uncertainty has made this policy necessary, but in this moment, sitting in this kitchen, Castiel had wanted this one specific thing. It’s such a small thing. A dish of his childhood reconstructed for a moment of nostalgic bliss, and he couldn’t even have that.

Castiel knows this is stupid. It’s stupid to be disappointed to not get something he hadn’t even thought about until five minutes ago, but that moment of delight had been so sudden, so viscerally latched on to the pleasure center of his brain, that the taking away of it feels like physical blow. The worst part is that none of this Dean’s fault. He’d cooked this dish as an act of casual kindness for goodness sake, and how many times in Castiel’s life has someone even bothered to do this?

Dean’s still talking. “So I thought maybe we could go up to the fortress. I mean, if Rachel _insists_ on giving us the VIP treatment if we leave the house why not use it, right? What are the chances I’ll be able to go up there ever again?” He stops, eats a little more, catches his breath. “You okay, Cas?”

“I feel displaced,” Castiel says. “I feel a… _yearning_. For the time in my past when I ate this meal.”

Dean nods. “Memory lane’s a trip.”

“Why should I be nostalgic?” Castiel says. “I’m glad that’s over. We were moved around like chattel, from household to household as our wardships changed hands according to the wishes of the Crown. How can I be homesick for something that doesn’t exist?”

“Home doesn’t have to be a place,” Dean says.

“What is it then, a smell? A memory? A person? _Your_ home is your family, I understand that, but would that make my sister my home? I don’t think it’s right to put such weight on a single person. She has her own life, and she can’t be inextricably tied to mine.”

Dean exhales slowly. “I’m sorry, Cas—”

“Don’t be sorry, this is the nicest thing anyone’s done for me in a long time,” Castiel says. “I thank you. It is very thoughtful, and very kind.”

Dean flushes with pride and pleasure, ducking his head in typical inability to acknowledge the praise. Here is a man who cannot function solely as a recipient; he needs to give as well. Castiel is supposed to be the more mature one but Dean’s gone and tasked himself to feel _responsible_ for Castiel, because that is simply who Dean is. And what does Castiel do? Castiel repays him by washing down the taste of an abominable meal with his drink, because he is an ungrateful assbutt.

“I—I didn’t want to…” Dean coughs. “Hey, you finished? Let’s talk a walk in the garden.”

“No,” Castiel says. “I don’t want to walk in the gardens.”

“Cas.”

“I would like to watch something on the TV,” Castiel says. “That science fiction show, the one with the aliens with rubber facial prosthetics. I want to watch that from the start, and you’ll explain it to me properly.”

Dean hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“I know what I want,” Castiel says. “I want to do that. I also want popcorn.”

Dean seems about to protest, but then changes his mind. His smiles is gentle, agreeable. Castiel does not feel ashamed to see it. “Okay, I can do popcorn.”

After cleaning up, Castiel goes to the TV room first while Dean gets their after-meal snacks. Castiel sits in a corner of the couch and readies the remote. When Dean arrives with the popcorn, Castiel doesn’t expect him to eschew his usual place on the other side, instead immediately sitting in the spot next to Castiel. The popcorn is warm, Dean’s body is warmer.

“Okay,” Dean starts, “I’m not gonna spoil the story for you—”

“I already watched the later episodes,” Castiel reminds him.

“That’s like a whole two seasons away, this is gonna be different, trust me.” Dean clears his throat. He is the best storyteller in the world. “Okay, backstory…”

Good things in the world are fleeting, and Castiel must allow himself to enjoy this for what it is. Dean could be a living, breathing candle for all the warmth he emanates at Castiel’s side, the rapid movements of his mouth as he speaks and the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes the only action in the room worth following – the TV is background noise to the real show.

Dean shifts on the couch to make himself comfortable, and it brings his shoulder into contact with Castiel’s. He leaves it there. If there is such a thing as an unkiss – where there is closeness and a rush of pleasure at a simple point of contact – then this must be it.

In this moment, Castiel is content.


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel’s never gone over to the staff building before, but there’s a first time for everything. He marches down the stairs and out the door like a haphazard hurricane, Dean trailing after him and offering half-baked opinions, “Dude, Cas, it’s not a big deal, really, there’s no need.”

Oh, but there is a need. Castiel nurtures that need in his chest as he crosses the clearing between the main house and its neighbor, glaring at Dean when he tries to get in the way (and fails). There are conditions that keep them here. Dean and Castiel have done practically everything that have been required of them, and if Rachel is _so_ adamant that they stick to the script, then they should not be hypocritical about it.

Castiel knocks and waits. Dean moves back and forth behind him – as though unable to decide whether stay or go – and then reluctantly presses himself defensively against the wall as the door opens.

“Castiel?” Rachel says. She lets out a sound of surprise when Castiel walks into the house, forcing Rachel to make way for him.

The door leads into a communal sitting room – simple, cozy, functional. Virgil is sitting the chair nearest to the fireplace, and their gardener – what’s her name, Castiel can’t remember – is sitting in a window nook, frozen in the act of eating a sandwich. After a beat, Virgil jumps up to his feet and puts down the crossword puzzle he’d been working on.

“Your Lordship,” Virgil says.

“Our radio is missing,” Castiel says. “If the culprit is here, you will identify yourself right now.” He scans the room. Rachel looks guilty but doesn’t step forward, and the gardener is watching them avidly, sandwich politely lowered down to her lap. Virgil coughs.

“It was me, sir,” Virgil says.

“You came into our house.” Castiel turns to face him fully. “What is your defense?”

“It’s His Highness’ regulations, sir,” Virgil replies. “All media for consumption is to be—”

“You came into our private space,” Castiel says. “How did you even know we had a working radio? Do you patrol our hallways as well as the grounds?”

“The housekeepers,” Rachel says. “They mentioned it.”

“So this more important to you.” Castiel takes in all their expressions – Rachel, at least, has the decency to lower her gaze. “Maintaining our isolation is a higher priority than the preservation of our privacy as newlyweds. Good to know.”

He turns to leave and almost runs into Dean, who quickly gets with the program and follows him out the door. Castiel can’t say that this is entirely unexpected but he’d hoped. Right there is the problem, isn’t it? He’d _hoped._

“Castiel,” Rachel says quickly, running out after him, “Sir, I can try to talk to—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Castiel says. “We’re done. You’re excused.” Rachel hangs back, reluctantly accepting the dismissal.

It’s only once he and Dean are back inside the main house does Castiel allow himself to stop and take a deep breath. Dean hovers nearby, and when Castiel catches his eye Dean seems unsure whether to be amused or confused.

“What was about?” Dean asks. “I mean, _I’m_ annoyed ‘cause I put in some decent hours getting that thing to work again, but what’s up with you? You really care about our privacy?”

“Remember the mechanism you described, of the buffer that exists between the Council that gives the orders, and the people – you – who execute those orders?

“Yeah?”

“I assume that they don’t tell you everything that’s happening, and you don’t report back everything either.”

Dean’s brow knits together. “Well, yeah.”

“This is like that,” Castiel says. “This is a limit of information put in place to manage us.”

“Dude.” Dean follows Castiel through the house, up the stairs and to the study where they’d just discovered the missing radio some minutes ago. “This isn’t exactly new, Cas. It’s been this way since we got here. Hey.”

Castiel sits in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. In contrast Dean’s perched on the edge of his chair, studying Castiel closely. Castiel sighs. “It’s one thing to arrange the house prior to our arrival with the TV, the lack of a telephone, et cetera. It’s another to actively intercede when they find we’ve gotten around their embargo.”

Dean’s scowl grows deeper. “You think they’re deliberately keeping us in the dark about something?”

“We know that there’s a challenge on the validity of our marriage,” Castiel says. “What is the status of this issue? Is the matter limited to discussion at court, or has it been leaked? Do your people know of it?”

“No,” Dean says. “That’s as far as I can tell from the letters I’ve received, anyway. But look, even if it’s true that they’re keeping shit from us, which they probably _are,_ that’s kind of to be expected, isn’t it? How is this a surprise?”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t be unhappy about it.”

“Of course not.”

“I’m just tired of not knowing what’s going on,” Castiel says. “This felt like a last straw, I suppose. And I was offended on your behalf. Now you don’t have your music.”

“It’s not a big deal, really. You gotta pick your battles.” Dean frowns at the look Castiel gives him. “What?”

“I’m waiting for the joke at the end of that statement,” Castiel says. “Perhaps a mundane but humorous example of a worthwhile battle.”

Dean crosses his arms. “Cas, the last time they shared a piece of info with you, you dug your heels in. If I were them, I wouldn’t tell you anything else if I could help it. Just sayin’.”

“You’ve already been thinking about this,” Castiel says.

“Well, yeah.” Dean shrugs. “Gotta watch all the angles.”

It’s reassuring to hear that Dean’s been mentally exploring the possibilities. His brand of skepticism is not the same as Castiel’s, and Castiel finds himself perking up with interest. “Tell me of your conclusions.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “It it doesn’t matter what I—”

“Please. Indulge me.”

“C’mon, Cas.” Dean holds Castiel’s gaze for a moment, and then exhales slowly. “Okay, fine. Fact is, I don’t want to go to court.”

“All right.”

“No, not like, ‘the idea makes me want to hurl and I’m gonna get stage fright all over again’ kind of don’t want. I mean that when I can finally go through the gates for good, the first thing I want to do is head for the train station to check the departure times.”

“Oh.” Castiel glances at the door, then at the windows. There’s no chance that there’s anyone listening – there _are_ limits to their rudeness, and Dean’s suspicious nature would’ve uncovered any hidden prizes within the first few days of their being here. Even so, this kind of talk makes Castiel wary. “I see.”

“I don’t feel safe,” Dean says. “I mean, here’s not so bad. Sure, it’s a little quiet but the town’s nearby and sometimes when the sky’s really clear I can see the lights down on the coast, so it’s okay, you know? It won’t be like that once we’ve weighed anchor.”

“You don’t feel safe,” Castiel echoes. “Isn’t the Council sending an entourage for you?”

“Yeah, Dad’s arranging that but… I’m part of Michael’s family now.”

Castiel nods at Dean’s rueful smile. “And thanks to me you know what that means.”

“Cas, you know I wouldn’t…” Dean moves forward in his seat, and for a moment Castiel think he’s going to reach for him, but he doesn’t. “This isn’t me being a coward.”

“You’re in no way a coward, Dean. I understand your reservations. You are extrapolating your expectations based on how Michael has treated us by proxy so far.”

“I know we’ll be VIPs,” Dean says quickly. “Golden ticket treatment, the works. And I know you’ll be watching out for me every step of the way. But the closer we get the worse I feel, and I’m starting to… I’m starting to wonder if I shouldn’t ignore my gut feeling.”

Castiel knows what it means that Dean is able to tell him this. These are rational fears to have, despite (or because of) all the progress they’ve made. They still have over a week left to go, and now that Dean’s brought it up Castiel can feel anticipation settling in the pit of his stomach like the lead weights. What else do they need to cram in, in the time they have left?

“You do know you can’t actually do that,” Castiel says.

Dean glares at Castiel, almost defensively. “Of course I know. I’m not gonna jeopardize the mission just ‘cause I have a gut feeling. I just wish I had more things in my arsenal, is all.”

“What would you like?”

“I’d like a say on who’s in my entourage, for one. I want people I can trust watching my back. But the people I _do_ trust aren’t qualified to go with me.”

“You mean fellow hunters.” Castiel thinks. “Could they be your personal bodyguards?”

Dean makes a face. “Kinda degrading, don’t you think?”

“Helping you is considered degrading?”

Dean shakes his head in exasperation. “Hunting is a high-octane gig. Diplomacy is… okay, diplomacy is high-octane as well, but it’s different, you know? It takes a different kind of learning for you to know when to act and when not to. The people I’d want covering my ass against a werewolf pack ain’t necessarily the people I’d want watching me wrestle with a dessert fork.”

“You should consider it, though. You have an advantage in the number of people invested in your well-being. Not in you as a product, but you as a person. You were just telling me about… what’s their names? Victor and Bobby? And Jo?”

“You met Jo and Bobby at the wedding. Jo’s mom is Ellen Harvelle–” Castiel starts in surprise at the mention of the Republic Speaker, such a prominent figure, “–and she’s not gonna let Jo go up north by herself. Bobby’s always busy as hell, no way he can spare time babysitting. Victor? Last I heard he’s still out, looking for Sam.”

“Are you going to make an excuse for everyone you can think of? _Ask_ them, Dean.”

“We’re just talking in theories, Cas!” Dean abruptly rises to his feet, startling Castiel. “Because that’s all we _can_ do.”

Castiel stares in surprise as Dean storms out of the room. That was unexpected.

Well, Dean’s certainly due his right to it, and Castiel’s not going to hold it against him. There are no cold beers on this floor, so Dean will have to go all the way down to the kitchen and back, which is fair walking distance to clear his head. Castiel turns towards the window, where the sky is blue but there’s a hint of grey in the distance – more rain, perhaps.

Castiel tries to imagine what Michael is doing, if he’s keeping a close eye on public opinion of the marriage, and if he’s measuring the pros and cons of keeping the marriage versus letting it fall apart under Uriel’s machinations. There’s no doubt that Virgil and Rachel have been keeping him updated on the status of his and Dean’s relationship. Michael will know that they are getting along reasonably well but aren’t sleeping together. What conclusions can Michael reach from that?

Returning footsteps draw Castiel’s attention away from the view. Dean enters the study, and he wordlessly walks up to Castiel to hand over a small, colorful card.

“What’s this?” Castiel asks.

“An invitation,” Dean says. “Rachel left it in the kitchen with a note.”

“For a public appearance?” Castiel reads the card. It’s a simple piece announcing the premiere of a play in a few days, of which the Ilchester Theatre Company would greatly appreciate their presence. “We are overdue for another, I suppose.”

“It’ll be different from driving through town to pick up oranges,” Dean says hesitantly. “This sounds like dinner and a show.”

Castiel looks at Dean. “Are you up for the challenge?”

It could be a trial run. It could also be the chance to get a sample size on what public opinion on them is like out there – this will be useful for leverage when negotiating with Michael later. If they’re lucky they might also be able to sneak some newspapers from a concession stand somewhere.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says. “Could be interesting.”

 

* * *

 

In the time they’ve spent here, Castiel hasn’t felt any urge to go into town. He has nothing _against_ it, and if he were here as a mere tourist he would’ve definitely enjoyed exploring the old fortress settlement. Castiel simply doesn’t crave contact the way Dean does, though he’s been content to go out the brief few times Dean wanted to – always with Virgil present, of course – and observe the way people react to Dean. Dean is compelling and approachable when he’s allowed to relax a little, and sometimes Castiel wishes that he and Dean didn’t know each other at all, so that he would be able to freely observe Dean in his natural element.

Going out to town with an official purpose is another matter. Rachel approves of their agreement to attend the play, and promises to make all the necessary arrangements. All Dean and Castiel have to do is dress up and show up at the door.

“I should’ve taken you to the movies first,” Dean says regretfully.

Castiel glances over at Dean, and then makes a show of slowly looking around the room. They’re having breakfast in the TV room today – the windows wide open and curtains drawn back, thanks to Dean’s experiment with waffles having gone horribly wrong in the kitchen. The videos they’d watched last night are still on the table.

“That’s different!” Dean exclaims.

“We’ve had popcorn, ambient lightning, and media to watch,” Castiel points out. “Minus having to fight for a place to seat, and putting up with strangers talking whenever they feel like.”

“The screens are bigger.”

“And more chances to ruin your eyesight.”

“It’s like difference between eating at home and eating out,” Dean insists. “There’s the whole experience of getting ready to go out—”

“Which you were just complaining about the hassle of.”

“You think you’re so clever.” Dean throws a cherry tomato at Castiel, who catches it easily. “Informal social gatherings are a totally different ballgame from the other kind. You know this.”

“I know what you describe to me of _your_ normal social gatherings,” Castiel replies. “Beer and games of dubious skill.”

“Pool is not dubious. It’s… geometry. And physics. Don’t give me that look – you’re just judgy ‘cause you don’t play.”

“Oh, but I’ve _seen_ people play. It can be made very sexual.”

“All games are sexual,” Dean says promptly. “If you put your mind to it.”

Castiel nods. “Yes, that tells me a great deal about you. Please don’t throw any more food at me unless you mean to clean it up yourself.”

Really, Dean can blather all he wants about the merits of informal social gatherings, but that’s not relevant for their task tonight. An official public appearance isn’t a big deal in Castiel’s opinion – certainly not after suffering the circus of getting married – but Dean seems to be restless with anticipatory dread, hence the talking about other things they should’ve done first.

“Look, you’ve already taken me to try your street food,” Castiel says. “And now you’re taking me for fine dining. It’s merely an expansion of our experiences together.”

“I’m taking you?” Dean echoes. “Dude, you’re taking _me_.”

“No, you’re taking me,” Castiel insists. “It’s your culinary experience that I’m exploring.”

“It’s so not, buster,” Dean scoffs. “The last time I went for fancy-pants dining was… Geez, I must’ve been sixteen? Seventeen? Some stupid age.”

“Ah,” Castiel says. “You wished to impress a date.”

“Hell no,” Dean says, though the way he self-consciously ducks his head is evidence enough that he’s done _other_ things to impress people. “It was for my Mom’s birthday. Dad was away so I had the dumb idea to squeeze myself dry for a dinner I thought she wanted. It’s just, I’ve always known how the Campbells live, okay? Mom didn’t have all the things she used to, and I thought it would be a cool present. I hadn’t figured out yet that it’s not the price that sets the value of something.”

Castiel stares at Dean for a long moment. “That is the most charming thing I’ve ever heard.”

“What?” Dean blurts.

“You wished to give your mother a gift despite it being something you weren’t keen on.”

“No no no, you’re missing the point! The point is that it’s not my scene at all, and I am _offended_ that you’d think it is.” Dean flops against the back of his chair, deflating. “Shut up.”

“Fine. I’m taking you out to dinner,” Castiel says. “But you’re taking me to the show.”

“Oh.” Dean nods, although he’s still scowling. “Okay, that works.”

 

* * *

 

Once it’s time to get ready for dinner, Castiel finds himself standing in front of his wardrobe, bewildered that it contains an entire unexplored section of formalwear, none of which has any chance of being worn in this house. Over lunch Rachel left them both memos on what to wear tonight – Castiel had initially been confused by the outfits she described, until Dean coughed and told him that there really _are_ dinner suits in their rooms, honest.

Here is the evidence of it, and Castiel removes one of the suits and spreads it out on the bed, hoping that he has the right one because most of them look the same. When he puts it on he’s surprised to find that it fits comfortably – not as stiff or pinching as some of the things he’s worn in the past. Dean may have worn a suit at their wedding and reception, but Castiel had been lucky enough to be allowed to wear their traditional loose robes. That said, he probably won’t mind wearing jackets more often if they’re all like this.

Castiel does the jacket’s three buttons and stands in front of the mirror to study himself. The clothes are nice and make him look fitter than he is, but there’s no helping his eyes or the general feebleness of his face. He never could pull off that classic royal expression of confidence and self-assurance. Anna could manage that, most of the time. Castiel always ends up looking disgruntled or like he wants to strangle someone.

A knock makes Castiel jolt in surprise, for it hadn’t come from the normal door. Castiel slowly turns to the private door, the one that links his and Dean’s rooms.

“Yes?” Castiel calls out.

Through the door comes Dean’s muffled voice, “I need help with something.”

“Coming.” Castiel opens the door to let in a half-dressed Dean, who has his shirt and pants on but is sans socks and jacket. “What’s the problem?”

“The problem is I can’t…” Dean stops, double-taking, and slowly looks Castiel up and down.

“It fits well.” Castiel pats his waist self-consciously. “More comfortable than I thought.”

“Yeah,” Dean says distantly. He shakes his head. “I know we’ve covered this before but I forgot, do the cufflinks point to the wrist or the elbow? My first thought was they should point to the wrist, so the tree is upright like this, right? But then I started second-guessing myself.”

“You were correct the first time, but it’s easier to put the cufflinks on before you put on your shirt. Never mind, let me do that for you.” Castiel takes Dean’s wrists one after another, securing the cufflinks before patting them down. “There we go.”

“Thanks,” Dean says. “Hey, what’s up with your tie?”

Castiel looks down at it. “I like the color. Does it clash with something?”

“No, but do you even know how to tie a tie?”

“What do you call this?”

“An accident? C’mere, you look ridiculous.”

Castiel rolls his eyes but tips his head back to let Dean undo the knot and pull the ends free. Dean makes an annoyed sound, as though offended by this lack in Castiel’s knowledge, and works the new knot deftly, his fingers swift and confident.

“You didn’t shave,” Dean says.

“I shaved this morning.” Castiel, chin still up, has to look down his nose at Dean. Dean’s own chin is smooth, the lines around Dean’s mouth more prominent at the distance, in this light. “Don’t tell me you’re offended.”

“The peach fuzz is all you, I guess,” Dean says. Castiel freezes at the touch of Dean’s fingers on his chin, flicking almost playfully against the grain of his five o’clock shadow. The little pressure points of warmth linger even after Dean steps back, smiling with satisfaction. “Much better.”

Castiel touches the knot of his tie, the shape tauter than it had been earlier. “Thank you.”

“I’ll get my tie and jacket,” Dean says. “See you downstairs?”

“Yes, all right.”

 

* * *

 

It made sense to receive the invitation, and it made sense when he and Dean argued harmlessly about the goals of going. It even made sense to help each other get dressed properly.

Yet when Castiel, who’s waiting at the front door, looks up to see Dean descend the staircase fully decked out, some treacherous part of Castiel’s brain chimes up with a truth: this is an exceedingly handsome man. Castiel has been living under the same roof with this exceedingly handsome and kind man. Castiel is married to this exceedingly handsome, kind and funny man. They are about to go out on what is effectively a – a _date_.

Dean drops onto the floor with a jaunty little step, and flicks his thumbs against his lapels. “The tie’s too much? I found a bow-tie, but I thought that was pushing it.”

“This is very nice,” Castiel says. “You look very nice.”

Dean smirks. “I always look nice.”

“That is true as well.” Castiel frowns at himself, unsettled. He’s not supposed to be saying such things, but the context is different now, isn’t it? This is a harmless part of the performance, and Dean seems to know this well enough, winking at Castiel before turning to fix his hair in the foyer mirror. Castiel waits for him to finish before going to the door. “The car is waiting.”

“Hey,” Dean says, catching Castiel’s arm. “You look damn nice yourself.”

Castiel feels his face grow warm, and scowls defensively. “You don’t have to—” He stops when Dean presses a finger to the space between his eyebrows.

“Just take the compliment, okay?” Dean says quietly. “’Cause it’s true, even if a whole bunch of everything else isn’t.”

Castiel feels himself relax, the steadiness of Dean’s gaze soothing the itch under Castiel’s skin. “All right.”

Tonight there’s absolutely no question of Dean driving, so he and Castiel take the backseat of the Fallon while Virgil drives and Rachel takes shotgun. Virgil is in a suit of his own, tie and all, and Rachel has a smart pantsuit on, her clutch held in her lap like a shield.

“From six to seven thirty you will be having dinner at the adjoining restaurant,” Rachel says. “And then I will escort you to your box seats.”

“We have box seats?” Dean says. “There are box seats?”

“Will you be sitting with us?” Castiel asks.

“Yes, this venue has box seats,” Rachel says. “And no, we will not be sitting with you. I have my own seat elsewhere, and Virgil will be stationed outside your box to ensure your privacy.”

“Aww, but Virgil’s going to miss the show,” Dean says.

“I will survive, sir,” Virgil says.

“The restaurant and theatre staff will probably request photos with you – say yes. Everyone else, Virgil and myself will manage, and you will follow our lead. Based on our other outings the people here are quite respectful of your space and won’t harass you, but if there any incidents, stay calm and follow Virgil’s instructions. If you need refreshments or other necessities, just let us know.” Rachel looks down at what is presumably a checklist. “Other than that, have a good time, your lordships.”

“Still not a lord, Rach,” Dean says.

Rachel turns in her seat, and looks Dean straight in the eye. “Have a good time, your lordship and husband.”

Dean makes a face. “Better?”

Castiel shakes his head and pats Dean’s arm. Dean shoots Castiel a side-eye but doesn’t shake his hand off.

It’s difficult to chat in the car with Virgil and Rachel there, so they don’t. Dean watches the scenery, and Castiel tries to do the same but for the most part ends up watching Dean as surreptitiously as he can. Dean’s nervousness is in check, mostly restricted to his rapid finger-tapping on his knees. All is well.

When Rachel announces that they’ve arrived, Dean draws poise around him like a cloak – it’s amazing to watch. Dean sits up straight, pats his tie, and turns to the door expectantly, waiting for someone to open it for them.

The restaurant is a small but elegant establishment, tucked into a quiet corner just off the main road that houses the theatre. Dean takes Castiel’s arm as they’re led inside by the hostess, through the main area and its sparse customers – a few glance up as they pass, but only fleetingly – up to the first floor where there’s a private table waiting for them. It’s only partially hidden by a tasteful paper screen, making them visible to anyone walking past the gap, though Rachel and Virgil have their own table nearby to safeguard their privacy.

Their table is round, not square, so Castiel and Dean sit next to each other, their backs to the frosted window behind them. Castiel makes their orders, the choices easy enough to make due to his familiarity with Dean’s tastebuds. He adds a few small experimental dishes for his own curiosity, and then their hostess curtsies and leaves.

“One and a half hours, right?” Dean asks, making himself comfortable in his chair. “You got a timer for that?”

“Let Rachel do her job,” Castiel says. “I don’t think my watch goes with this outfit.”

“What?” Dean says. “We have dress watches in the drawer. Haven’t you explored your room properly?”

“What for?”

Dean sputters. “What _for_. What if there’s a sudden zombie apocalypse? You should know where and what all the resources you have are.”

“Your survivalist thinking is different from mine,” Castiel says. “I know where everything essential is, and have no interest wasting brain space on anything else.”

“But how do you _know_ you know that’s everything essential?” Dean challenges. “What if there’s some emergency survival kit at the back of that wardrobe of yours you never bothered to explore?”

“Why would an emergency survival kit be put there? It would be in a more logical and easily accessible location, such as under the bed. Which it is.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You are the worst to argue with, you know that?”

“Thank you,” Castiel says.

The food, once it arrives, is excellent. It’s different from their more casual cuisine, but similar enough with the deep flavors that the people here seem to enjoy. The combinations are intriguing, and Castiel even catches Dean pulling apart the vegetable garnish curiously to sample their taste.

“How’s the food?” Castiel asks.

“It’s okay,” Dean says.

Castiel eyes him closely. “You approve of it. Don’t lie.”

“I didn’t lie,” Dean says, laughing. “I said it was okay.”

“Okay is neutral.”

“Okay means edible,” Dean says firmly. “And you know I don’t put anything in my mouth that I don’t approve of.”

Castiel huffs under his breath. “Such praise is hard-won from epicurean Dean Winchester.”

“I’ll epicurean your _face_.”

This could almost be like every other outing or every other meal, except Dean is dressed up and extraordinarily careful with the cutlery. Castiel feels blessed in some odd way he cannot define, to be here with this company, this food, this chance to watch Dean spear his grilled lamb with fearsome intensity. Castiel doesn’t even feel self-conscious when Dean senses him watching and looks up, waiting for a comment that doesn’t come.

“Leave some room for snacks, okay,” Dean says. “I’m eating during the show, I don’t care.”

“If you’re the one eating snacks, why should I make space?”

“I’m not gonna eat alone, Jesus, what do you take me for?” Dean takes his wine glass and, seemingly inspired, offers it to Castiel. “To box seats?”

Castiel lightly taps his glass against Dean’s. “To post-dinner snacks in box seats.”

“Amen.”

They’re just finishing up the last course when it slowly comes to Castiel’s attention that Dean has tensed up again. It’s a gradual thing, barely noticeable over their easy conversation, but now Dean is back to sitting stiffly, hands twitching and glancing over Castiel repeatedly in something like expectation.

“Do you want another glass of wine?” Castiel asks.

“What, no, uh.” Dean clears his throat. “Now don’t read too much into this, okay? I was poking around the garage – that’s what I do, you already know that, yadda yadda – and found some old loose silverwork lying around doing crap all. I checked it with Rachel, she said it used to be part of the house’s protective design?”

“Yes, that sounds about right.”

“So _she_ said that I could sell it off for all she cared, but it’s tarnished so I wouldn’t have been able to get a good price even if I wanted, which I don’t, and, you know, this past few weeks have been all about finding ways to entertain ourselves, right? So I got, uh…” Dean stops abruptly, as though run out of script, and then puts a small wooden box on the table. “This is for you.”

It takes Castiel a moment to understand what Dean just said. The box is small and old, recycled from a previous purpose. Castiel opens it to reveal a small thin bracelet, with a charm set close to the clasp.

“You’re not a metalsmith,” Castiel hears himself say.

“I’m not a mechanic, either.” Dean shrugs. “I still like to do things. It’s cool if you think it’s tacky or whatever.”

Warmth seems to be licking up the sides of Castiel’s face. He looks at the bracelet, then back at Dean, and then holds out his hand. “Put it on for me.”

“Oh.” Dean clears his throat. “Okay, sure.” Just like how he’d fixed Castiel’s tie, Dean fixes the bracelet swiftly and securely. His fingertips leave invisible marks wherever they touch.

Castiel would admire the bracelet under the light, but it seems that the blood has rushed from his fingers, leaving them numb and useless. “Your mother wears something like this.”

Dean’s smile is sudden and thrilled. “I made that for her! Well, me and my Dad made it for her, that’s kind of where I picked it up the basics. This is – okay, this one isn’t as complicated, it’s more like a starter kit? You’re supposed to add the protective charms as you get them, but silver’s pretty basic, isn’t it? I polished this so it should be effective again, but maybe you shouldn’t test it.”

As a protective piece it’s small and not very useful, but that’s not the point, isn’t it? Dean made it with intent, Dean was thinking of him.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” Dean says quickly, almost babbling. “It’s just, you know, I wanted to do something with my hands, and you’ve been so great, Cas, I know I’ve been a butt, you gotta babysit my sorry ass—”

“Not true,” Castiel says quietly.

“—and I’m very, very grateful.” Dean nods rapidly. “Whatever happens here on out, I want you to know that I’m grateful for everything.”

Castiel’s reasonably certain he should say something at this point. There should be acceptance or reciprocation, yet there’s nothing in his immediate vocabulary that can encompass what Dean deserves to hear. It’s with an acute sense of his own stupidity that Castiel says, “If our official relationship were authentic, I would kiss you in thanks.”

“You can,” Dean blurts out. “I mean, I don’t mind. Public appearance and all that. We’re supposed to be crazy about each other, right?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. “If I were crazy about you I’d definitely kiss you at this point.”

“Okay.” Dean really doesn’t seem fazed by this. “It’s cool with me.”

There’s no way that Castiel can risk turning to check if they have an incidental audience – anything that happens at this point cannot be seen to be staged. So his full attention is caught by Dean’s judgment-free eyes, the small smile on his lips. Is that expectation? Hope? There’s definitely a touch of nervousness, but it doesn’t seem to be the bad kind.

Castiel glances down at the bracelet, a physical piece of evidence of what Dean’s done because he wanted to. “Thank you for this, Dean.” Castiel leans forward.

He presses his lips to Dean’s for one, maybe two seconds, and is about to pull away before he wonders: is that too brief? Is that unrealistic for newlyweds? But then Dean’s moving forward to return the soft closed-mouth kiss, and then Castiel’s turning his head a little to adjust the angle of the next kiss, and then Dean’s fingers frame the side of Castiel’s face for the kiss that follows.

It’s not making out. Castiel knows what making out is like – there’s heat and tongue and pressure – so this must be something else. By the fifth, sixth kiss their mouths are open slightly as they press against each other, but it doesn’t get any deeper than that. It’s just gentleness in the meet of their mouths, and if there is a goal here, it remains elusive and unnamable. They’re just kissing, just breathing, just gently finding new ways to get their lips to fit.

Castiel thinks this might have gone for a little longer than necessary. And that he should probably not be clutching the lapel of Dean’s jacket.

They haven’t kissed since their wedding night. They haven’t talked about what the rules are about kissing in public. Castiel has no idea what he’s doing, except he really kind of doesn’t want to stop. The first flick of Dean’s tongue against the seam of Castiel’s mouth makes him sigh. Dean doesn’t pull away.

Bad ideas aren’t supposed to make Castiel’s toes curl, are they? This can’t be a bad idea. Dean’s nose brushes Castiel’s when he changes the angle. Dean’s fingers tug teasingly at Castiel’s hair, as though studying its texture and tensile strength. The warmth of Dean’s body makes the space behind Castiel’s balls tingle.

The clink of glass startles Castiel out of his dazed haze. He turns towards the sound – oh, right, they’re in a restaurant – and Dean’s lips graze his cheek before drawing away. Castiel glances down just in time to see Dean unwrap his fingers off the edge of the table, his knuckles almost white. Castiel’s skin is buzzing.

“Glad you like it, Cas.” Dean’s voice is a little hoarse, but his eyes are clear and his smile is easy. Castiel should feel more proud instead of unsettled that Dean’s performance is nigh flawless.

 

* * *

 

The restaurant owner and head chef come out to see them. Dean is his impeccable charming self, receiving smiles all around and offering praise for the restaurant’s team and service. Castiel lets Dean put a hand on his waist when they take a group picture, Rachel operating the camera. Castiel chats with the hostess a little – yes, the food is wonderful, yes, the town has been really welcoming, no, they haven’t seen as much of it as they’d liked. Then it’s time for the show, and Virgil and Rachel escort them through a quiet route to theatre’s side entrance.

It seems to be a full house tonight. Dean grumbles that they’re overdressed – everyone else seems merely on the smart side of smart casual – but Rachel tut-tuts his concerns, shooing him up the narrow staircase to their private box, where there are playbills waiting on their chairs.

“These are terrible seats,” Dean whispers to Castiel. “Everyone will hear if I start to snore.”

“I will watch out for your virtue,” Castiel says. Behind them Virgil draws the curtain of their box closed, and Castiel starts pulling off his jacket.

“What are you doing?” Dean asks.

“It’s hot in here,” Castiel says. “And Rachel’s gone to her own seat, so she’s not around to tell me that I can’t.”

“Point.” Dean removes his jacket as well, draping it over Castiel’s on the back of the spare chair. After a moment he takes off his tie as well, unbuttoning the collar and sighing with relief. “Your ideas are the best.”

“I’ll remember you said that,” Castiel says. “Are you going to get your snacks now?”

“Nah, I’m still full.” Dean leans forward in his chair, arms braced on the balustrade as he peers at the stage and seats in the darkened theatre. “Maybe during the break. Oh shit, they’re starting.”

The play is interesting. It’s a semi-historical comedy-farce that has even Dean laughing despite the use of formal language and Latin in its dialogue. Castiel loses track of the more nuanced jokes but manages to follow the gist of the story – there are two servants in love with the same man and are trying to find their fortune to be considered worthy of wooing him. There’s also a talking horse, though Castiel has no clue how’s that relevant to the story.

Dean’s whole body shakes when he laughs. Occasionally he’ll poke Castiel in the arm and whisper a comment about how brilliant something is, and Castiel will nod.

Almost in no time it’s intermission, and the lights turn on. Dean stretches, the chair tilting back as he works his neck. “Not bad. What’d you think?”

“Their comedic timing is excellent,” Castiel says.

“They need to make a movie out of this, this is awesome,” Dean says. “I’m gonna go to the men’s room. Will probably drop by the concession stand on the way back. You want anything?”

“No, I’m good.”

“You sure?” Dean squints at him. “Michael’s paying.”

“I’m sure. Thank you.”

Dean lingers for a moment, though Castiel’s sure his answer is sufficient. “You okay?”

Castiel starts a little, looking up at Dean guiltily. “What?”

“I don’t know.” Dean shrugs. “Just asking.”

Castiel realizes that he’s been toying with his bracelet, and makes himself stop. “Nothing, it’s just… This is nice. I didn’t know it could be this nice.” He doesn’t bother qualifying which ‘this’ he’s talking about – the play, the dinner, just being with Dean – because there wouldn’t be any point.

Dean’s expression is inscrutable for a moment, but Castiel thinks he understands. “Yeah. Yeah, it is, isn’t it? Be right back, Cas.” He disappears behind the curtain.

The truth is, Castiel’s having a good time. They’re on what’s effectively a date and he’s _having a good time_ , and that line of thought wedges a new realization under Castiel’s ribs: what if they’d gone on a real date? What if the whole arrangement scenario never existed, and they’d just met in that bar as they were? There had been a spark of potential there, right? Would they somehow still be able to end up here, having dinner and watching a show?

Probably not, Castiel thinks. He wouldn’t have been open to the experience without external motivation. He probably wouldn’t even have had the patience to strike up a conversation with Dean at all, or respond if Dean made the first attempt to open a topic. Castiel wouldn’t even be in this country in the first place, and he never would have known that Dean exists in the world.

It is a frightening thought.

Even more frightening is how it’s shifting the scales in Castiel’s mind – Michael’s manipulative choices must remain manipulative. Castiel can’t be _thankful_ for his machinations _._

Castiel is jerked out of his thoughts when the lights grow dim. Has it been twenty minutes? Dean isn’t even back yet, and now Castiel has to pay proper attention to the play to fill him in when he returns.

On the stage, the leading pair are bemoaning their latest state of affairs. They’re halfway to another argument when the curtains rustle and Dean’s finally back in the box, breathing a little heavily as he drops in his seat.

“You didn’t miss much,” Castiel says. “I believe she’s decided to concede the competition to—”

Dean’s arm comes around Castiel’s waist, pulling him close. Castiel is so shocked that he lets it happen, hair at the back of his neck rising when Dean presses his forehead to the side of Castiel’s face, his breath warm against Castiel’s cheek.

“What’s wrong?” Castiel whispers.

“Nothing,” Dean whispers back. “Just let me for a while?”

Castiel can do that. He stays unmoving while Dean calms his breathing, the slow shudders of his body easing away after long seconds. Dean shifts a little, the movement nuzzling his nose against the side of Castiel’s face – it’s a very strange, though not an altogether unpleasant sensation. It is good to remember that Dean is a tactile man who needs touch to reassure himself. One of Dean’s hands clutches tightly on Castiel’s waist – Castiel covers said hand with his own, running his thumb soothingly over the turn of Dean’s wrist.

Curiosity piques Castiel, followed by the determination not to let Dean go out alone whenever he’s required to perform. He’d done well during dinner but who knows who he might’ve met in the men’s room, or what questions some well-meaning townsfolk might’ve asked him. Perhaps people are more cautious when Castiel’s around – Dean’s one of them, after all, and more easily approachable.

Nearer to the finale Dean’s recovered enough to mutter, “Oh dammit, I was rooting for the other guy”, though he only unwinds himself from around Castiel when they stand up for the curtain call, moving forward in their box so the cast and the audience can see them.

With the lights on Castiel can see Dean’s face more clearly. He tilts his head in question, but Dean just shakes his head, exhausted.

 

* * *

 

They can’t really talk in the car on the way back, but judging from the tired slump of Dean’s shoulders he isn’t in the mood to talk anyway. Dean’s expression is almost melancholy as the light from the passing streetlamps cast on and flee from his face.

Castiel tentatively reaches over, pressing a hand on Dean’s forearm. Dean starts a little, but he doesn’t pull away.

They’ve left the town hub behind when Virgil curses softly. Castiel dismisses it at first, but the low conversation between Rachel and Virgil that follows goes a little longer than is comforting, and Castiel says out loud, “Is something wrong?”

“The engine’s overheating, sir,” Virgil says. “We should be able to reach the house before any serious damage.”

“Overheating?” Dean echoes. “You’ve been taking the car out for joyrides, Virgil?”

“I would never, sir,” Virgil says.

Now that Virgil’s mentioned it, Castiel can hear the engine complaining – at first mildly, and once they’ve partway made the journey up the hill, vociferously. Dean’s winces of sympathy get more pronounced the farther Virgil pushes the car, and then there’s one final, enraged groan, and the engine calls it quits in a rush of steam.

All of them exit the car, Virgil heading straight to the trunk to get some equipment. Castiel stands a safe distance away from the smoking engine, and Dean soon joins him, laughing in disbelief.

“How far are we from the house?” Castiel asks. “We can leave the car and come back tomorrow.”

“It’s an expensive car, your Lordship,” Virgil says.

“That’s what keys are for,” Castiel says. “Lock it up, we’ll start walking.”

Rachel sighs. “Where’s the spare water, Virgil? Don’t tell me you moved it back to the other car?”

“She’s not walking to the house in those heels,” Dean says.

“I can carry her on my back,” Castiel says.

“Like hell,” Rachel says. “Sir.”

They go back and forth on this for a while, with Castiel all for walking to the house and Virgil insisting that he can get the car running soon. Dean’s apparently so tired that he has no horse in this race, and takes to sitting on the curb with his head almost on his knees.

“I was counting the road markers, we’re less than a half mile to the edge of the grounds,” Rachel says. “Once we’re inside it’s secure.”

“Dean,” Castiel says. “What do you want to do?”

Dean shrugs. “Walk to the house, I guess.”

“Rachel?”

“If Virgil insists on staying, I’ll come with you,” Rachel says.

So the three of them begin the trek up the road to the main gates, leaving Virgil behind to contemplate the car’s recovery.

There are no streetlights this far up the hill, so Rachel and Dean have two of the car’s flashlights, holding them out in front to lead the way. Castiel stays between them, and after fifteen minutes of walking up the incline is grateful that he and Dean left their jackets inside the car. Aside from the mild physical discomfort the walk is actually quite pleasant, the trees and wilderness on either side of the road creating the illusion of a religious pilgrimage towards the as-yet-invisible house in the distance.

“Hey, Rachel,” Dean says suddenly, breaking the silence. “How’s the prep coming along for our debut at court?”

“Everything’s on schedule,” Rachel says. “There’s no need to worry.”

“That’s good to hear,” Dean says.

The tone of Dean’s answer is – well, it’s not rude, or argumentative, but there’s a tense undercurrent that draws Castiel’s attention. Dean’s capable of blowing hot and cold on the turn of a dime, but Castiel’s been guilty of that as well, really. Something back at the theatre bothered Dean, but not so much that he was unable to complete his presentation and remain Castiel’s loving husband in public.

It’s a relief once they make it past the gates, the safety wards closing behind them.

It’s not so much a relief when the dark clouds overhead decide to open, dropping rain on them.

“Motherfucker!” Dean yells.

No one has an umbrella, so they start running. Castiel holds a hand up to shield his eyes from the worst of it, the pelts of cold night rain like bullets on his head and shoulders.

There’s only maybe a hundred or so yards to the house, so they can definitely make it – Rachel gives up and kicks her shoes off before going for it. Eventually she splits off from them and heads for the staff building, waving a hand over her shoulder as she goes. As for Castiel, he ignores the front door and heads round the back while Dean hollers at him with _where the hell you going oh goddammit._

Castiel practically rams the back door open when he reaches it, taking a deep dry breath when he falls into the unused laundry area. Beyond the doorway there’s the private kitchen leading into the rest of house, and Castiel takes a moment to visualize the route they’ll have to take to get to the staircase.

“Dude.” Dean is dripping from all corners, his appearance like that of an angry, damp dog. “The front door not good enough for you?”

“It’s mostly tiles and concrete back here,” Castiel says. “Didn’t want to ruin more carpet than is necessary. Why didn’t you go for the front door?”

“I was following you! Are our clothes dry-clean only?”

“Our jackets are, so thank goodness we left those behind. Can’t say the same for our pants.” Castiel unbuckles his belt and kicks off his shoes to get his pants off. “You may leak your way through the house if you wish. I’m going to get this off me before I get a cold.”

“Why is the house so fucking big!” Dean stands there for a moment, arms spread out and bleeding water to the concrete floor. “Shit.” He starts pulling off his shirt.

“We can put the shirts in the kitchen sink.” Castiel successfully balls up his shirt and pants in his arms, and gingerly toes his wet socks off. “Ugh.”

“The sink’s not big enough for all our crap.” Dean’s peeled off his shirt, and wrings as much water as he can out of it onto the floor. “We gotta head upstairs. Give me your pants. C’mon, you said the pants are dry-clean, I’ll carry those, you carry the rest. Come on, I’m freezing!”

Well, what’s a little more running? Dean leads the way, Castiel following close behind. The house layout being what it is, they barrel through hallways and doors until they reach the closest bathroom, which happens to be Dean’s bathroom on the first floor. Dean heads straight for the shower stall and unfolds their pants, and waves a hand frantically at the tub for Castiel to dump their shirts in.

“Oh geez, Cas, not like that,” Dean says. “Unwrap the shirts first. Get some warm water in there.”

“Give me the cufflinks,” Castiel says. “Do not let them fall down the drain.”

They move around the bathroom, which is apparently functioning as their haphazard emergency laundry center for the night. Once Castiel has carefully dabbed their cufflinks dry and arranged them on a shelf that he notices the pristine neatness of Dean’s bathroom. All his things are arranged tidily, and there’s actual powder detergent under the sink, which Dean takes out to deal with their pants.

“There should be some fresh robes up there,” Dean says.

There are indeed two fresh robes in the little nook above the tub, along with a bunch of spare towels. Castiel takes a handful, dipping one of the small hand towels in the warm water of the sink before tapping Dean on the shoulder. “Here. Keep your head warm.”

Dean makes a face at him but stays still long enough for Castiel to carefully wrap the warm towel around his head, tucking the folds neatly to make sure it won’t fall. Castiel’s inner shirt is now extremely unpleasant, and he tugs it off, tossing it into the tub before pulling on one of the fresh, fluffy, wonderfully dry robes.

“Put on a robe,” Castiel holds the other robe open for him, helping it up Dean’s arms before stepping back. “Why do you even have detergent in your bathroom?”

“So sue a guy for wanting to wash his own underwear,” Dean grumps.

“That’s how much you don’t trust our housekeepers?”

“When it comes to my underwear? _Yeah_.” Dean carefully sits on the edge of tub, dipping one hand in the water. His skin’s already looking better thanks to the steam filling in the bathroom. “You never know, man. I brought my own, and they could throw it out for being old or whatever, and where would I be?”

“I’m sure they would ask first. Or you could rain retribution on their heads if it happened.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dean snorts. “Jesus, _rain._ ”

“I know,” Castiel says with a nod. “Virgil should be happy, since it’ll help cool down the car.”

Dean stares at Castiel for a moment, and then bursts into laughter. “Oh god, I completely forgot about that. He might have to stay overnight out there. I hope he gets a hardship bonus from Michael or something.”

“Virgil might consider it an insult. He’s quite old-fashioned.”

“Really?” Dean grins. “Wouldn’t have guessed.”

They fall silent for a moment. Castiel should probably leave, but he dreads the thought of leaving their makeshift sauna for the undoubtedly cold room waiting upstairs. “Do you think the pants will be ruined?”

“We’ll only be able to tell tomorrow,” Dean says. “I’ll lay ‘em out tonight.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, a question in his tone. “Do you ever tell yourself that you’re gonna do something, only when the moment gets there you find out that you don’t have it in you?”

“Yes. Sometimes preparation can only go so far.” Castiel watches Dean for a moment, but he doesn’t add anything else. “Dean, you did very well tonight. I have no criticism, and I doubt Rachel will either.”

Dean’s mouth quirks a little, but it doesn’t seem to improve his mood. “Sorry ‘bout mauling you in the box.”

“Don’t apologize,” Castiel says firmly.

“Why, ‘cause it was pretend?”

“I don’t care if it was pretend, I don’t care if it wasn’t.” Castiel shrugs at Dean’s flummoxed expression. “If it was pretend, then you were doing what you were supposed to. If it wasn’t, then it was something you needed.”

“And you’re okay with that? That second one?”

“Yes.” The word is huge on Castiel’s tongue, yet it rolls off so easily. “Because it’s for you.”

“’Cause I’m your husband.”

“ _No_.” Castiel moves forward, pressing a firm hand on Dean’s collarbone to emphasize his point. “Because it’s _you_. I’ve been living with you for a while. I’m allowed an opinion by now.”

Dean looks like he doesn’t know what to do with that. Castiel, on the other hand, is seized with a slightly panicky sense of satisfaction, along with surprise at himself. This feels correct. This feels _solid_ , like iron and silver and earth. This feels like it needs to be said out loud right this instant.

“Tonight I had a thought,” Castiel says. “This arrangement – Michael and the Council’s arrangement – is a thing I’d never have wanted for myself or anyone else unwilling. This is a truth, you agree? But then I thought that if it hadn’t happened, then I’d never have met you. I’d never know that you exist in the world. The thought is… upsetting.”

It feels right to say this out loud, though hell if Castiel knows what his goal is beyond getting that awful, sad look off Dean’s face. Castiel’s not good at this, he’s _never_ been good at this, but it’d also never been a problem before. Castiel is insufficient, and he hates it.

“Dean, you are… significant,” Castiel says weakly.

After a handful of long seconds, Dean rises to his feet. A sudden devil-may-care wildness has lit up his eyes, as though caution has been thrown to the wind, consequences be damned, there is nothing left to lose. Dean’s hands find Castiel’s waist, the touch muted through the thick layer of the robe, though the kiss that Dean gives him just then is anything but muted.

Unlike at dinner, Castiel takes the kiss but doesn’t return one of his own. As soon as Dean’s lips rise off his Castiel moves his face away, sliding his arms through Dean’s and taking him into a hug. Dean’s body is at first stiff and unresponsive – Castiel tightens his hold anyway. Then Dean looses a shaky breath and shudders, burying his face into Castiel’s neck and sighing.

“I don’t know what you need from me, or if I can give it to you,” Castiel says quietly. “Maybe I can’t, maybe I’m not capable of it. But anything else of me, I give to you freely. I think I know you a little by now, and this is something I choose for both of us.”

Maybe Dean’s feeling lonely, or homesick, or disgusted at himself for the performance he had to give. Maybe he’s working through something else in his head that he doesn’t want to tell Castiel. Maybe he needs recognition of himself as a person instead of a commodity. Maybe he needs a warm body to remind him that he’s alive. Frankly, Castiel doesn’t care what the reason is.

A tiny thought does nag – they’d once decided that this was a bad idea, what with the matter of boundaries and emotions and differing expectations, but those issues feel so small right now, so distant. Dean is unhappy, and that’s what matters. Fuck it.

Castiel pulls back and looks Dean in the eye, hoping he can read the authenticity of what he is about to say next. “I’m going to go upstairs have a shower. Once I’m done, would you like me to come back?”

Dean doesn’t quite manage to control his surprise. There’s trepidation there as well, a sort of holding back Castiel knows well – to want something is to show weakness. Dean might not even trust himself to answer.

“All right,” Castiel says. “I’m going to have a shower and go to bed. I’m going to leave my door open. You are welcome to join me if you wish. Do you understand, Dean?”

Dean nods faintly.

Castiel presses his palm against Dean’s cheek, his breath catching when Dean’s eyes flutter closed at the touch. It takes willpower for Castiel to pull away and back up to the door – not to flee, but to give Dean time to think. “I’m going now,” Castiel says.

 

* * *

 

Castiel does have his shower and crawls under his bedcovers afterward, alone.

It is only some time later that he’s woken up from a light doze by the sound of footsteps. The room lights are all off, so Dean is illuminated by moonlight, distorted by the rain still pelting on the windows. Dean freezes a few feet from the bed, startled by Castiel’s waking up.

Castiel pushes himself up a little off the pillow. Dean’s in sleeping clothes – different pair of shorts and a faded shirt. His hair is mussed up, as though he’s been running his hands through it. He looks terrified, bracing for something – rejection, perhaps.

There are dangers inherent in this, but they are faraway beings and irrelevant for the moment. Tomorrow, Castiel thinks sleepily – he’ll think about this properly tomorrow. For now Castiel holds his hand out, beckoning. After a moment Dean even takes it, allowing himself to be drawn in.

Castiel shifts under the covers, scooting over to a still-cool patch of mattress so Dean can lie down on his warm spot. Dean sets himself on his back, face up at the canopy and practically lying down at attention. In the quiet of the room Castiel can hear Dean swallow.

Sleep starts to pull Castiel again. He presses his face against the pillow, one hand resting in the space between him and Dean. Just as Castiel’s about to slip under he feels Dean’s hand tentatively cover his own, as though to draw comfort from the steady rhythm of his pulse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spnblargh did art inspired by this chapter! [Check it out.](http://queernatural.tumblr.com/post/76956051346/scaramouches-latest-chapter-of-not-part-of-the) ♥


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Sexual content:** Intercural, penetration.

Waking up is a strange experience. Castiel’s first semi-conscious thought is his left shoulder is annoyingly cold, a fact that is doubly unacceptable since there’s a sufficient heat source on his other side. Castiel rolls, grunting when his heat source turns out to be a hard lump, and then makes himself comfortable against it.

It takes a while of drifting in and out of consciousness before Castiel realizes that this isn’t the normal state of affairs. Castiel slowly opens his eyes, and through the fog of sleepiness registers a well-worn cotton shirt in his immediate view. Castiel squints, and keeps on squinting until the cotton shirt reveals itself to be worn by another human being, who is Dean.

Dean is a wall of warmth and reassuringly solid against Castiel. One of Castiel’s hands seems to be in a strategic location, and he moves it upward, rubbing a thumb against the bristles of Dean’s chin. There’s a little bump on one side that could be a scar, which is interesting. Also interesting is that Dean appears to be awake, and is watching him through half-lidded eyes.

“Time?” Castiel says, voice dry from sleep.

“No clue. I think we overslept.” Dean shifts a little. “Uh, I kinda need to pee.”

The shape of Dean’s throat is fascinating, the little hollow vibrating when Castiel brushes his fingertips against it. Then there’s the rise of his Adam’s apple, with a smattering of freckles that are only visible to Castiel at the moment due to their proximity.

“Really need to pee,” Dean says.

Castiel fails to see how this is his problem. It takes Dean’s making a mournful sound for Castiel to realize that he has a leg thrown over Dean’s thigh, keeping him where he is. With monumental effort Castiel unwraps his limbs from around Dean, and once Dean slips out of bed Castiel rolls over onto the space he’d vacated, rubbing against the warmth.

If contentment is a tangible thing, then this must be it. Castiel pulls Dean’s pillow to his chest, hugging it in the hopes of absorbing its warmth.

It is only gradually that Castiel remembers yesterday, with the series of events that lead to Dean’s sharing his bed. It was nice to have Dean here. There’s no shame in acknowledging that, just as there’s no shame in acknowledging that Castiel would like him to return because the bed’s getting cold.

Castiel accidentally falls asleep again, waking up with a jolt when the light beyond the curtains is much brighter. He sits up, rubbing the crust from his eyes. The bathroom is quiet and the private door is slightly ajar. Dean probably went back down to his own room, which is annoying.

It would be nice to lie down again but there’s the countdown to think about. They have a week left, and Castiel needs to start thinking about more solid milestones, and the things he may have missed and cannot afford to anymore. Yesterday had been… _different_ , and Castiel’s not quite sure what happened, but they still have work to do.

Castiel gets up, stretches, and goes to the bathroom to freshen up. 

Feeling inspired, Castiel takes the private stairs down to Dean’s room. That’s definitely allowed now, right?

Castiel pauses at the door to Dean’s room, bewildered by the sound of voices, plural. The words may be muffled but there’s definitely more than one person speaking, which shouldn’t be possible unless Dean found another working radio in the house.

When Castiel carefully pushes the door open, Dean is at the far end of the room, near the other door, talking to… the cook?

“…just give me a chance,” Dean’s saying angrily. “You can’t tell me to…”

Castiel must have made a noise, because both Dean and Elizabeth sharply turn in his direction. Their surprise is to be expected, but Castiel’s breath catches at the unmistakable guilt that widens Dean’s eyes. Elizabeth backs away quickly, bobbing her head in a bow.

The best course of action is to retreat, which is what Castiel does. He gets away from the door and up the stairs and into his room, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. He’s definitely wide awake now.

Castiel needs to do something. He should get dressed. That’s right, yes, he should get dressed for the day, there’s a lot of work to do, he should review the activities of the past few weeks and try to find the relevant gaps.

The private door flies open when Dean comes through it.

“Cas,” Dean rushes towards Castiel, who isn’t in the mood. “Cas, I can explain.”

“It’s fine.” Castiel tries to ignore the bile in what he’s saying. “I understand. Whoever you want to sleep with is your own business.”

“What?” Dean double-takes. “What are you – oh. _Oh_. Geez, Cas, no, it’s not like that. She brought us breakfast.”

“To your room?” Castiel asks incredulously.

“We overslept! She heard – Rachel told her how we got caught in the rain, she was just checking in to make sure everything’s okay. Cas, I swear, me and Liz… we’re just friends.”

Castiel feels his face contort, unable to decide what expression to best utilize in this situation. Elizabeth shouldn’t have been allowed upstairs to deliver breakfast, not even on Rachel’s orders – that’s what the intercom is for. And ‘just friends’? What does that mean? He and Dean are ‘just friends’ as well when it comes down to it, so what does that have to do with anything?

“Shit,” Dean says, his eyes wild. “Goddammit.”

It feels like they’re having two separate conversations here. Castiel’s having the conversation where he’s acknowledging that Dean is his own person, but Dean’s having the conversation where it’s apparently appropriate for him to swoop forward and take Castiel’s face in his hands, and then press their mouths together furiously.

Kissing is – well. Kissing Dean is a jolt to Castiel’s spine, the final turn at the peak of a rollercoaster, making Castiel so dizzy that he almost misses Dean’s urgent, “It’s not like this with Liz, okay? I don’t do this with her.” There’s an almost naked desperation in the way he presses, “You believe me about this, don’t you, Cas?”

Castiel takes in Dean’s expression. It makes no difference if he believes Dean or not, but this is surprisingly important to him.

The moment Castiel nods Dean starts to lean in again, but Castiel’s hands immediately come up, keeping the few safe inches between their bodies. Dean’s had his moment, and now’s Castiel’s.

“If you’re doing this because of pity,” Castiel says, “or guilt, or some misguided sense of obligation, then I don’t want it. Do you hear me, Dean? I don’t want it.”

Dean’s eyes flutter closed. His shoulders actually _relax,_ and Castiel is so startled that he relaxes his grip and Dean sways forward, his forehead coming in to press against Castiel’s. Dean smiles. “Good,” he says. “I don’t want it like that, either.”

Castiel breath catches, his relief sudden and overwhelming. A beat passes and then they’re reaching for each other, the next kisses deep and hungry and desperate, and not at all like last night’s kisses. Castiel has been in this exact situation before with this exact same man yet he’s still surprised by the shock of arousal that follows Dean’s touch, making him shake and clumsy in his attempts to climb Dean like a tree.

God, they’re doing this. They’re actually doing this right now, kissing and clawing at each other and moving haphazardly towards the bed that is somewhere over to the left. When Castiel gets a hand under Dean’s shirt Dean makes this sound like he’s losing his mind, and it’s amazing. Instead of fear Castiel feels the rush of elation, pure sunshine joy erupting in his chest because this is a glorious thing for them to share.

When they find the edge of the bed Dean sits down and guides Castiel onto his lap because, yes, now Castiel can grind down on him and isn’t it a marvelous thing that Castiel is still wearing his one-layer sleep clothes?

“Wait, wait,” Dean says breathlessly. “Cas, I need to tell you something.”

Castiel groans but pulls his mouth off of Dean’s neck, drawing back to look him in the eye. “What?”

This really isn’t the time for Dean to hesitate. “I, uh…”

“ _What_?”

“Remember – remember how we met, Benny’s bar, that first time?” Dean babbles. “I went looking for you, afterward. The next day, I mean. I went to the bar again, thinking you might be there, but you weren’t, so I went back to the resort, but you were gone.”

Castiel starts in surprise. “Why would you do that?”

“You were acting like… I don’t know, it was the way you threw yourself out there.” Dean shrugs. “In my experience, people who act like they have nothing to lose are the ones who are in the deepest shit. I had a feeling you were in trouble.”

They were strangers then, but that is Dean’s character, isn’t it? If he sees someone in trouble he’d try to find something to do about it, because it wouldn’t occur to him to do otherwise. A rush of affection swells through Castiel, and he shakes his head in wonder.

“It must’ve been a shock to see me again when you did,” Castiel says.

Dean snorts. “Well, duh. I was kinda pissed.”

Castiel nods, face flushing hot at the memory of Dean’s cool aloofness. “I remember. What you must’ve thought about me.”

“I mean, there you were, mister fancy pants standing pretty like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.” Dean grabs the hem of Castiel’s shirt, pulling it up and over his head. “I felt so stupid for worrying about you.”

“Oh,” Castiel says wretchedly, kissing Dean a quick apology. “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.”

“You were gonna marry my _brother_. You were gonna – Jesus fucking Christ, Cas, you _asshole_.”

Castiel accepts Dean’s frustration, falling onto the mattress when Dean pushes and spreading his legs when Dean moves between them. Dean’s still talking as he paws at Castiel’s body – little phrases and exclamations and curses that make Castiel’s body quake as effectively as his touch does.

“You son of bitch,” Dean growls. “Son of a bitch, you fucker, you don’t even know, you have no fucking _clue_.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel gasps. He keeps gasping his apologizes to every one of Dean’s curses, because it’s true, he is sorry, would Dean please grind against him harder? Though as their touches get more frantic and Dean’s kisses more jaw-aching, Castiel comes to realize that he’s actually apologizing for things Dean doesn’t even know.

Castiel wants Dean so badly that it’s a physical ache. He can feel his whole body straining– to reach Dean and be near Dean and be with Dean, but that makes no sense because Dean is literally humping him into the mattress. It’s still not enough, because inside of Castiel’s wanting Dean there’s something else he wants more – he wants Dean to want him back just as much, just as fiercely.

“Please,” Castiel says. Please want him back, please want to be with him, please want him more than Elizabeth. “Please, Dean, _please_.”

The world tilts when Dean rolls him over, nudging Castiel onto his stomach. This is an agreeable position, and Castiel gets his knees under him, pushing his ass up to aid Dean’s pulling his shorts down and away.

Castiel starts at the touch of fingers between his thighs, and tries to look over his shoulder. “Dean, wait, I’m dry.”

“No, like this.” Dean’s thumbs open him up, and something firm slides between his cheeks before the thumbs release their hold. That’s Dean’s cock caught against Castiel’s perineum, sliding carefully against the sweaty skin there. “Just like this. That okay?”

Castiel lets his head fall to the sheets, trying to form an answer. His breath hitches when Dean moves carefully, his shaft teasing the sensitive places between Castiel’s legs, a suggestion of other things but also a goal of its own. It would be good to be filled up but this has its merits, from the dragging tease against his hole to the way the head of Dean’s dick nudges against Castiel’s balls. Castiel can definitely come like this if he puts his mind to it.

“Yes,” Castiel says, and that’s enough an invitation for Dean to drape his body over him, arms and legs finding their leverage points to guide their rut against each other. “Yes, I like that, very good.”

Dean laughs, and with his chest pressed against Castiel’s back the vibration seems to rumble through them both. “Tighten your legs for me, Cas. Fuck yeah, just like that, that’s great.”

Everything about this is joyous as much as it is sensual, and despite Castiel’s eagerness to reach orgasm there is pleasure in simply being here, wrapped up in Dean, taking Dean’s biting kisses on his shoulder, feeling Dean thrust against his ass. Castiel feels exhilarated, relieved, cherished.

“You have no _idea_ ,” Dean snarls, which happens to be the last thing Castiel registers before his orgasm takes over, Dean’s fingers pulling tight on his erection in getting him over that last hurdle.

Castiel’s muscles have the consistency of overcooked pasta by the time it’s Dean’s turn to come. Dean doesn’t seem to mind though, and firmly holds Castiel’s thighs together to fuck the space between them, whole body stiffening when he reaches the apex. Castiel laughs weakly when Dean’s arms give up and he collapses on him, a dead weight.

Castiel takes a deep breath, overwhelmed by a different kind of lightheadedness now that he’s come back down from the wild ride that is Dean Winchester.

Dean hadn’t planned this. Castiel hadn’t planned it either, though he’d definitely been open to the possibility of it happening – he wouldn’t have invited Dean into his bed if he hadn’t. Frankly, Castiel has been open to it the entire honeymoon, and he’d said as much weeks ago though Dean had been disgusted at the idea at the time. Something must have shifted in Dean’s mind to make sex acceptable now. Perhaps it’s their impending departure from the house.

Castiel gently pushes Dean off of him and sits up to observe the collateral damage. To Castiel’s surprise Dean’s not even fully undressed – his shirt is still on, and his shorts only shoved down to his knees in his apparent eagerness for coitus. The result is that Dean’s current appearance is a fascinating combination of ridiculous and decadent, and Castiel laughs, overwhelmed with affection for this beautiful, stupendous man.

Dean makes a face and sullenly covers his softening cock with his hands. “Don’t you know it’s not cool to laugh at a dude’s a junk?”

“Oh it’s not that.” Castiel reaches over, running his fingers through Dean’s hair. “You are wonderful.”

Dean’s smile is small and almost shy, which is nonsensical considering that his semen is spattered all over Castiel’s inner thighs. “Uh, thanks?” His face is soft from his orgasm, and this is such an improvement from his disposition last night.

Dean said that he hasn’t been doing this with Elizabeth. Castiel believes him.

“There really is breakfast in my room, though,” Dean says.

“Good,” Castiel says. “I’m hungry.”

* * *

After some rudimentary attempts at cleaning up and getting dressed, they descend through the passageway to Dean’s room where there is indeed a breakfast cart parked near the window, and no Elizabeth anywhere in sight. Castiel is no mood to argue on that matter anyway, and settles in to eat, Dean sitting across from him.

It is too nice a morning for discord. Their time is much better spent enjoying the food, making small talk, and procrastinating on all matters beyond the house. Dean seems to concur on Castiel’s choice of strategy, and falls easily into their regular routine of idle chatter about nothing too important.

Castiel is still warmed all over by Dean’s admission of how strongly he’d reacted to seeing Castiel again after their one night stand. Castiel knows it isn’t personal because they’d only just met, but there’s a thrill to know that it isn’t he alone who’d sensed the potential of friendship in their first encounter. Dean is a better person than him in so many ways; Castiel hadn’t given much thought about Dean’s feelings in the aftermath of their night together, but Dean had been concerned about a stranger he barely knew, and tried to follow up on him to make sure he wasn’t in too much trouble.

What would have happened if Dean _had_ found him the next morning, before Castiel left with Naomi for the city? Castiel doubts that he would have immediately confessed everything to Dean about his situation, but if they’d had a few days Castiel might have weighed the risk of trusting him with certain details, or he might’ve figured out the coincidence of Dean and Sam being brothers, and then… And then what? Castiel has no idea. The situation was so bizarre, so improbable.

Once they’re done with breakfast, Dean announces that he has to check on their clothes. “Then we can bring ‘em down for laundry.”

“I’d like to help you.” Castiel stands up. “I’m curious as to their condition.”

That turns out to be a partial lie, because once Castiel’s followed Dean into the bathroom it becomes clear that the skills of managing rain-damaged clothing is less interesting than watching _Dean_ manage said rain-damaged clothing. These are Dean’s life skills in action, and seeing them makes Castiel wonder about the life Dean had before he’d gotten embroiled in their current situation. Dean is semi-nomadic and independent, many functions of his life stripped down to simplicity. Take away the details and it’s actually not all that different from the life Castiel chose for himself away from court.

“So you gotta soak ‘em quickly in cold water,” Dean’s saying. He’s narrating his actions for Castiel’s benefit.

Castiel nods. He’s paying attention. Really. Dean’s at the sink doing something with their pants, fixing the creases or… something. His hands aren’t elegant as far as Castiel understands the term, but they’re cleverer than Castiel’s, capable and firm. His hands, much like the entirety of Dean’s physicality, aren’t _that_ unusual – he’s equipped with typical body parts in reasonable proportions, yet if anyone asked Castiel to describe Dean he’d veer far away from such a mundane word as ‘ _usual’_.

The urge to touch is overwhelming. Almost as overwhelming as the realization that Castiel’s allowed to do that now. They’ve just had sex, after all, which involves a whole lot more physical contact, of which Dean was an enthusiastic participant. It’s surely reasonable of Castiel to move behind Dean and rest his forehead on the back of Dean’s neck.

“Uh,” Dean says, though he doesn’t move away. “You want something, Cas?”

“Yes,” Castiel says.

“Oh. Okay.”

That sounds promising. Castiel sighs and rubs his nose lightly against the hairs at the back of Dean’s head. The cord Dean wears around his neck is in the way, so Castiel catches it delicately between his teeth, moving it up to his hairline so there’s more skin for Castiel to rub his cheek against. Castiel’s hands find Dean’s waist to feel the breadth of him, and Dean agreeably moves a little, widening his stance to give Castiel a more comfortable angle.

“Are you done with the clothes?” Castiel asks.

“Can be salvaged,” Dean says distantly.

Castiel really likes this. He likes studying the scents of Dean and basking in the reassuring solidity of his body. Castiel doesn’t even really notice the sexual connotations of what he’s doing until Dean makes a faint, hoarse sound like that of a man who’s trying not to – or has forgotten how to – breathe.

They’re _good_ at this. Sure, they’re not so good at a lot of everything else, but sex is splendiferous. They should take advantage of that.

The bathroom is very quiet when Castiel nudges his hands past the waistband of Dean’s shorts, slipping inside the cloth to stroke his lightly-furred thighs. He inhales sharply when Castiel massages his quads, thumbs just brushing Dean’s balls.

“Someone’s frisky today,” Dean says tightly.

“Sorry,” Castiel says.

“Only say sorry if you’re not gonna do something about it.” Dean rocks a little into Castiel’s hands, and then stills. “You _are_ gonna do something about it, right? You are enjoying this? Please tell me you’re enjoying this.”

Castiel’s only half-hard but he obligingly rubs what he has against Dean’s ass, huffing a laugh when Dean sighs.

“Why wouldn’t I be enjoying this?” Castiel asks. Dean has freckles at the base of his neck, and quite possibly along the backs of his shoulders, not that Castiel can see them with his shirt still on. Castiel should investigate this.

“Are you _really_ not gonna do anything?” Dean asks.

“I am doing something. Oh, you mean about your penis.” Castiel quite likes the strength of Dean’s inner thighs, the tendons like living steel. For now he takes Dean’s constructive criticism and moves his hands together to find the shaft in between. Dean groans when Castiel trails his fingers along his stiffening cock, feeling it swell with interest and curving upwards at Castiel’s urging.

Dean’s given up any semblance of working on their ruined clothes. His hands are braced on the edge of the sink, his knuckles a small mountain range of tension. Castiel could check Dean’s face in the mirror if he wanted to, but it’s more fun to close his eyes and press his cheek against Dean’s back – savoring the changes in his breathing and body posture when Castiel touches him.

There are other parts of Dean’s body that Castiel would like to pay attention to, but for now he’ll settle for petting his erection and the soft skin of Dean’s lower stomach.

 “Fucking hell, Cas, your hands,” Dean breathes.

“Yes, I have hands.”

“Pretty damn good hands.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says. “I like your hands, as well.”

“Touch me.” Dean reaches behind him, clumsily grabbing Castiel’s hip to pull him closer. “Cas, c’mon.”

“I am touching you.” Castiel demonstrates by stroking a fingertip along the head of Dean’s cock, which incites a wonderful full-body shiver from Dean. “See?”

“You’re such a tease,” Dean laughs.

“You like it, though,” Castiel ventures.

“Whatever.” Dean’s undulating a little now, little heartbeats of movement forward into Castiel’s hands and back against Castiel’s chest. “Okay, maybe. Sometimes.”

Castiel smiles against Dean’s neck and kisses the skin there. He draws one hand out of Dean’s shorts, dragging it up past the waistband and over his stomach – which jerks at the sensation – and farther up to his sternum. There’s so much to touch, really.

“Fuck, didn’t think you’d be like this,” Dean says.

“Hmm? Like what?”

“Uh.” Dean swallows. “Taking your time.”

“I want to learn you. What did you think I’d be like?”

“I don’t know. Like how you were earlier, I guess. Impatient.”

“I can be many things, just like you.” A thought occurs to Castiel. “You’ve been thinking about me sexually?”

Dean laughs but it’s a tight sound, his arousal distracting him. “Well, yeah, have you seen you? Wait, you never thought about me?”

“I think about you a lot,” Castiel says.

“I mean while spanking the monkey. Have you ever thought of me while jerking off?”

“That’d please you? Isn’t it enough to know you’re currently the entirety of my limited sexual experience?”

“Oh Jesus,” Dean half-groans, half-laughs. “Weirdest fucking dirty talk of my life, but hey, you gotta try ‘em to figure out if you like ‘em, right?

“That is accurate.” Castiel might as well tighten his grip on Dean’s erection, pumping it steadily. “I do like to try things.”

“Not always,” Dean says. “Sometimes.”

“Under the right conditions, yes. This is a right condition, and I…” Castiel drags his mouth along Dean’s shoulder, the movement pushing Dean’s collar to one side and revealing the faint blue curves of a bruise. “Dean, what’s this?”

“Hmm?” Dean turns to look, and then jerks in surprise. “Oh shit, Cas it’s nothing, it’s—”

“How did you get this?” Castiel pulls his hands free from Dean’s clothes, and pushes Dean’s sleeve up to check his upper arm. There are more bruises there, not dark enough to be a concern except that they shouldn’t be there at all _._ “Did I do this?”

“What? No! No, it’s…” Dean tries to bat Castiel’s hands away, only to find himself still boxed in against the sink. “Someone grabbed at me. During intermission of the show.”

Castiel scowls. “Is that why you were late returning to our box?”

“I… Yeah.” Dean shrugs. “I don’t want to say it was a fight, but—”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Castiel says. “Why wasn’t Virgil with you?”

“He was guarding you at the box, okay? Look, it’s not a big deal. I haven’t been active the past few weeks, I got a little slow, it’s not like they were trying to beat me up or anything, that would’ve been like, tabloid suicidal.” Dean’s joke falls flat, smile fading when he sees Castiel’s expression. “They were saying shit about you, I couldn’t let that slide.”

“About _me_?” Castiel says in surprise.

“It’s not a big deal,” Dean says, discomfited. “Just forget it.”

“I’m not going to ‘forget it’. Did you get their names? Will you be able to identify them if we go back to town?”

“No, Cas, I’m not gonna bring Virgil down on them,” Dean snaps. “They said some dumb things but they were harmless.”

“This isn’t harmless,” Castiel says, gesturing at his shoulder. “They hurt you.”

“It’s different with us, okay?” Dean insists. “A little rough-housing isn’t a big deal. I’m a freaking hunter for crying out loud, punching each other is how we say hello. Look, if you wanna be a prince about this, then let me deal with _my_ people, okay? I know how it works here.”

“And I don’t,” Castiel says. “Do I want to know what they said about me?”

“Stupid shit, not worth repeating. It’s just ‘cause you’re not from around here, and you’re… the way you are.”

“Foreign.”

“No, not that. Well, maybe a part of it is, but mostly it’s hard for people to read you, and sometimes that creeps them out. But it’s not like you can help it. It’s not like it makes you a bad person, ‘cause it doesn’t.”

“You would change parts of me, though, if you could,” Castiel says. “I know it’s frustrating how we sometimes talk past each other. Or misunderstand each other.”

“That’s different,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “I don’t want to change you, I want to know you.”

There is a sudden weight in Castiel chest, threatening to send something colossally humiliating out of his mouth. Dean says such things so easily, as though the enormity of his kindness simply never occurs to him – it is just given. Castiel takes a few breaths in quick succession to steady himself, and then limits himself to a quiet, “Thank you.”

Dean frowns. “For what?”

“For caring. You defended my honor, and that’s never…” Castiel drifts forward, smiling when Dean’s expression softens. He presses a quick kiss to Dean’s mouth. “Just, thank you.”

The detour may have thrown off Castiel’s rhythm but they pick it up again easily enough, Dean more than happy to guide Castiel step-by-step through his first blowjob offer. It’s messy, somewhat awkward, and Castiel’s jaw aches, but Dean laughs and moans plenty, which Castiel counts as a success.

Dean’s encouragement extends to his pulling Castiel off the floor before he reaches orgasm, and dragging him back into the bedroom because they, “better get some use out of the shit-ton of supplies they got,” referring to the sex supplies they’d been furnished with. Castiel’s drawer has been left mostly untouched over the weeks of their honeymoon, but Dean’s naturally explored through his, and knows exactly where the condoms and lubricant are.

“Did you use any of the other items?” Castiel asks curiously.

“Not anything that goes inside,” Dean says. “Someone else bought those things, man. Feels weird, I don’t know.”

“But you would, if you purchased them yourself.” Castiel suppresses a laugh at the way the tips of Dean’s ears go red. “That’s good to know.”

They christen Dean’s honeymoon bed with a slow fuck, Dean draped over the edge with his feet touching the floor, and Castiel arranged behind him. Castiel’s better prepared this time and pushes into Dean carefully, mindful of Dean’s pleasure and managing his body’s desire to thrust with abandon.

Being with Dean like this is a gift and a privilege. Castiel knows that now, for there are new layers of context in his being able to do this today, as compared to how careless Castiel had been for their first time, or even their second time.

Dean wants to _know_ him. Such simple words shouldn’t make Castiel this happy but they do, they make Castiel want to be better, to be more, to be worthy of knowing.

 “Harder, Cas,” Dean hisses, shoulders rolling as he finds his pleasure on Castiel’s cock. “Harder, c’mon.”

It’s a good thing Dean’s current position means that he can’t see Castiel’s face, because he’s sure that Dean would see everything. He would see Castiel’s hunger in running his hands over Dean’s back, following the direction of the strong muscles on either side of his spine, up his sides and all over the freckles on his shoulder blades. Castiel wants to soak up the knowledge of Dean’s body to learn how to make him feel good, though that’s merely one means to an end. Castiel wants to make all of him feel good. Castiel wants to make him happy.

“Seriously, man?” Dean laughs breathlessly, trying to shove back onto Castiel’s erection. “That all you got?”

“Maybe.” Castiel takes a firm grip on Dean’s hips to keep him still, and then rolls his body with the next thrust in. Dean groans, his thighs straining with need for more. “You will come like this, Dean. I believe in you.”

Their first time together had been honest in its own way. Dean had wanted to be with him for the sake of being with him, and Castiel hadn’t known how to appreciate that. If only they’d been able to keep that somehow. If only Castiel had found a way.

Castiel stutters with his next thrust. Dean doesn’t seem to notice, still panting heavily into the sheets, and Castiel recovers quickly.

Castiel’s been thinking in ‘what-if’s so much lately. It’s not the rueful thought exercise Castiel thought it is. Castiel wants Dean, all of Dean, honestly and without compulsion. Castiel’s been thinking on what they might have been because he wants it to be real. Castiel wants Dean to want him back for real.

Oh _no._

“Cas, Cas, give it to me,” Dean’s chanting. He can’t see how Castiel’s eyes have gone blurry, or his breathing suddenly erratic. Good, Dean shouldn’t see any of that. “Please, Cas, _give it_.”

Dean is wonderful. Dean is intelligent. Dean saw the threat long before Castiel did of what would happen if their boundaries got blurred, and the potential confusion between what they are supposed to be and what they really are. Dean told him of the dangers. _Castiel belittled him for it._

Castiel isn’t under any threat of falling for Dean, because he’s already fallen.

“Yeah, yeah, like that,” Dean groans. “Oh Jesus, just like that, hallelujah, fuck!”

Dean’s whole body jerks when he comes, his fists clutching at the sheets for leverage. Castiel keeps fucking him although his whole body’s shaking, his eyes damp and face hot with humiliation and horror and startling awareness of what he’s allowed to happen. Castiel sobs through his orgasm, almost relieved to have something to distract him because he’s _ruined_.

Castiel is ruined. He let himself get attached.

It’s not his fault, he thought this was merely friendship, and it’s not like he has much basis for comparison on what a romantic entanglement feels like. How was he to know what he was doing to himself, what it meant that Dean trailed around his thoughts so much, that everything Dean did means so much to him? How could Castiel do this?

Dean’s still gasping for breath in the aftermath of his coming. Castiel carefully pulls out of him and checks his opening to make sure everything’s in order. The condom needs to be dealt with, so Castiel carries himself with shaky legs to the bathroom.

His reflection in the sink mirror seems to be mocking him, the marriage tattoo seemingly darker than usual on Castiel’s arm. Castiel is debauched in more ways than the physical.

It’s not the honeymoon that did this. It’s not Michael that did this. Castiel may have missed parts of himself but he knows this at least. He’s been forced into close proximity with people before and not lost himself the way he’s done here. This is all Dean. Only for Dean.

“Hey,” Dean calls out from the bedroom. “You got lost in there or something?”

“I need a moment.” If Castiel looks at his reflection long enough, maybe he’ll recognize himself again. Castiel’s usual methods for dealing with vulnerability aren’t going to work here – Dean deserves better than that.

Oh God, Castiel’s despoiled. Michael and Naomi would use this against him if they knew.

“Hey.” Dean’s in the doorway now, and if it were any other moment Castiel would appreciate his nudity. His face is etched with concern and caution. “Did I do something?”

“No.” Castiel shakes his head quickly. “I think I need a shower now. A proper one.”

“Okay.” Dean leans out of the way when Castiel walks past. “Uh, you would tell me if I did something wrong, right?”

“You did nothing wrong, Dean.”

“Are you mad ‘cause I got into a fight?” Dean asks. “I am sorry about that, Cas.”

Castiel stops walking and turns to Dean, according him his attention. Dean is anxious, looking like he’s expecting the worst. The whirlwind currently in Castiel’s head is not Dean’s fault. “I’m not angry you got into a fight,” Castiel says.

“You’re not looking at me properly,” Dean says. “When you do that, something’s wrong.”

“It got intense,” Castiel snaps. “I wasn’t expecting it to.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. Cas, there’s nothing wrong if you didn’t like it.” Dean really needs to stop saying things that make Castiel adore him even more. “It’s just sex, right? I get it, I know you wanted to keep this simple, I’m sorry I pushed you—”

“You didn’t push me.”

“I did,” Dean says guiltily. “Yesterday. I made you.”

“When I say you didn’t push me, I expect you to believe me. When I say that I wanted it, and I wanted you, I expect you to believe me as well.” Castiel marches up to Dean, taking his face in his hands. In realizing how much he wants to make Dean happy, Castiel has accidentally made Dean sad. Why does he keep doing this? “This is me you’re talking about.”

Dean almost doesn’t accept the kiss Castiel gives him, jerking away a little when Castiel leans in, but at the last moment he turns back, as though helpless and compelled. His mouth soft against Castiel’s.

“We need to be allies,” Castiel says against Dean’s mouth. “For whatever comes next, we need to be able to rely on each other.”

Dean winces a little, but he nods. “Yeah, I gotcha.”

“I do need a shower, though. You’re welcome to join me, if you wish?”

Dean snorts a little. “Smooth, Cas.” But he cocks his head in approval, hand landing on Castiel’s bare hip, and Castiel is suddenly and acutely aware that they’re both still naked.

* * *

The rest of the day passes as a vague blur, the various orgasms leaching off Castiel’s desire to think about work, or Michael, or anything else beyond the pleasure of Dean’s company. They scrub each other’s backs in the shower, properly deal with their laundry, and take a stroll out in the damp grounds to check the damage from last night’s storm.

If Dean notices how distracted Castiel is, he makes no mention of it. Castiel isn’t about to burden Dean with his personal turmoil after all, and on a selfish front Castiel doesn’t feel inclined to expose his hypocrisy. Yes, he told Dean off for getting confused about the terms of their marriage, but Dean managed to work that out all by himself. If Dean can compartmentalize, then Castiel can.

Of course there’s the issue where Castiel already _has_ feelings for Dean. God knows where those feelings came from or when they settled down, apparently only deciding to make themselves known once it’s too late for Castiel to do something about them. Prevention better than cure, et cetera. It’s not Castiel’s fault that he hadn’t seen it coming, or known that it’s not platonic to feel sparks up his spine at the sight of Dean’s smile.

What _can_ Castiel do about it? There may be ways to switch off emotions but this is brand new to him, foreign and strange and wonderful, and no more decipherable than Dean was at the start of their knowing each other. Castiel should prioritize, and the most immediate thing is that he has to make sure that no one can exploit it as a weakness against him – or worse yet, against Dean. Yes, that is the most important thing.

It’s funny that Dean said how people in trouble tend to act like they have nothing to lose. Castiel feels like that now – he has nothing to lose because it’s already lost, so he might as well make out with Dean while he can. Dean must feel the same way because after all the care he’d taken to keep his distance during the weeks of their honeymoon, last night he’d given over to his needs, finally trusting Castiel enough to ask for the comfort that he deserves.

Dean’s certainly as distracted as Castiel is right now. The conversation between them is light and sparse but still easy, both of them silently agreeing to not let the rest of the world in just yet.

After lunch they decide to commune in the television room, Dean putting on one of the movies they’d already seen but wouldn’t mind seeing again. Castiel sits next to him as close as he dares, which is pretty close now, to his shame and delight.

Some ways into the movie Dean speaks up, a weight in his voice that makes Castiel pay attention. “Cas, I need to tell you something.”

“Yes?” Castiel says.

“Liz is Benny’s niece,” Dean says. “Our cook – she’s Benny’s niece.”

It takes Castiel a moment to remember that Benny is the owner of the bar where he and Dean met. “That’s a coincidence.”

“It’s not a coincidence. It was arranged.” Dean turns to Castiel on the couch, and Castiel realizes that this is a confession. “We’ve been friends for a while, and she’s been helping smuggle things in and out for me. Mostly news from the outside, uncensored by our babysitters.”

“How—but… Naomi hired the house staff.”

“Naomi picked her, but I got my people to go through the candidates, making sure Liz was the best one.”

This means that Elizabeth was planted from the start, Dean’s trusted ally to allow him an alternative channel of information that circumvents the controls set in place over the house. Castiel nods. “That makes sense. Thank you for telling me.”

Dean frowns. “You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be angry?”

“Because I didn’t tell you.”

“You did it to manage your well-being,” Castiel says. “I can’t be angry about that.”

“But I—I made you think I was sleeping with her,” Dean says. “I lied to you.”

“To protect your arrangement and your friend. You did what you had to do.”

Dean drops back against the couch, gaping at Castiel in disbelief. It seems likely that he’s actually getting upset that Castiel’s not upset.

“Okay,” Dean says slowly. “Okay, _okay_. So. Liz is still being watched so it’s not like she can bring me a newspaper every day, but she enabled some back and forth between me with some of my buddies outside, trying to find Sam before the Council or your people do.”

Castiel nods. “You want to ensure he doesn’t get into trouble.”

“I know where Sam is. Well, I have a vague idea where he is, and I think I know what he’s doing. I know his brain works. He’s blaming himself for what I… for what happened, and he’s trying to make up for it. I think he’s in trouble, Cas.”

“What makes you say that?” Castiel asks.

“He’s keeping his head down but word on the street is that he’s palling up with some people who are… let’s just say they’re not friends of the Crown. It’ll be bad news if Sam speaks out publically against the marriage.”

“He hasn’t yet, but you think he will,” Castiel says. “You wish to stop him.”

“I wrote to him but he didn’t buy it, he thinks I’m… whatever he thinks is happening to me here.” Dean shakes his head in frustration. “He needs to see me. I can only convince him I’m okay if I do it face-to-face.”

That’s the bottom line that Dean’s been working up to. It all makes sense now. “That’s the main reason why you don’t want to see Michael. You’re afraid that once you pass the borders you’ll never get the chance.”

Dean’s mouth clicks shut, and he swallows. “Yeah. I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“You should go,” Castiel says. “We can develop an appropriate cover story, and your allies can assist in fleshing out the fiction. You’re a hunter, after all. You have obligations to your people. Perhaps there’s a skirmish on the borders where your expertise is needed—”

“Cas,” Dean says. “I’m asking if you’ll come with me.”

“What?”

“Come with me! It’ll be great. There’s so many things I want to show you, so many people I want you to meet. We can do a tour, like a proper tour, here, and tell Michael that we’ll do the tour round the kingdom once we’re done.”

It sounds exactly like the sort of thing that would indulge the worst of Castiel’s vices: to know more of Dean, to see the things he likes, to meet the people who inform who he is. It sounds wonderful, and impossible, and the precise thing that will make Castiel spiral even further past the point of no return.

“That’s not how it works, Dean,” Castiel says. “You married the King’s kin. You’re required to pay homage to him before you even think about anything else.”

“But you’re in love with me!” Dean clears his throat. “You know what I mean.”

Castiel juts his chin out. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Oh come on!” Dean exclaims. “We’re supposed be reunited after how many freakin’ years apart, and you think that a month of a honeymoon is supposed to be enough? No way. If I gotta go somewhere ‘cause of my duties, you’re coming with me.”

“If you are unable to go to court, I should go and justify your actions to Michael in person.”

“What? Geez, no I’m not gonna let you face Michael on your own.”

“It will help,” Castiel says. “There are public relations issues to consider, and if the people are supportive of our union it will influence Michael to be lenient.”

“All the more reason for you to stay with me,” Dean insists. “People will think it’s fucking weird for us to split up. If you were in love with me, you wouldn’t be able to let me go.”

“If I loved you it would be _easier_ to let you go.”

“That makes no sense!” Dean sputters.

“It makes perfect sense,” Castiel responds. “I’d want you to be happy and safe, even if it meant parting from you.”

Dean crosses his arms. “Good thing you’re not in love with me then.”

“Aren’t you relieved.”

“Obviously.”

Castiel turns away, the motion helping calm the stuttering beat of his heart. That was close but luckily not close enough – Castiel is relatively unscathed and Dean none the wiser. Castiel exhales, and chances a glance back at Dean, who is jabbing angrily at his remote.

“I don’t want to fight,” Castiel says. “I hate it when we fight.”

Dean deflates. “Yeah, me too.”

They watch the movie in silence for a while. Dean smiles tentatively at Castiel, who is relieved and smiles back. They can figure something out.

“I know Michael better than you do,” Castiel says. “I understand his temperament.”

Dean shrugs. “I’m going to court, then.”

“Don’t be like that.” Castiel means to take Dean’s arm in a reassuring manner, but something misfires along the way and he ends up tipping over and pressing his face to Dean’s lovely, strong shoulder. “Don’t punish yourself for my sake. You must think of Sam.”

“Like I can ever stop.” Dean shifts his arm, bringing it out and wrapping it around Castiel’s shoulder to hold him close. “I gotta think about you, too.”

“I’m just your husband.”

“Which is why I want you to come with me.” Dean exhales slowly. “Can’t you trust me to take care of you?”

“To counter that, can you not trust me to manage your well-being at court?” Castiel wriggles in close, only to realize that his position would be much more comfortable if he slung his legs over Dean’s lap, so he does precisely that. Dean rests his remote-wielding hand on Castiel’s thigh, still fiddling with the volume. Castiel adds, “We can’t afford to offend the King.”

Dean lifts his hand from Castiel’s shoulder, bringing it up to comb through Castiel’s hair. “You’ll still let me try to convince you, right?”

Castiel snorts. “You may try.”

* * *

They have sex again that night. Castiel feels tremendously guilty about it, but with that Pandora’s Box flung wide open it’s natural as anything for Castiel to be drawn in when Dean reaches for him.

Why shouldn’t he, Castiel thinks selfishly to himself. Why shouldn’t he indulge himself for this moment, while he still can?

The answer is, of course, that being with Dean sexually pries him open even wider, allowing Dean deeper into the secret parts of himself. These are the parts that Castiel doesn’t think about, or knew he had, or ever thought would be relevant. Dean’s touch is all about comfort, generosity and closeness. Dean’s teaching Castiel how to be greedy.

They use Castiel’s bedroom this time, Dean laying Castiel out on his back to mount him from the edge of the bed, Castiel’s legs out and open on either side of Dean’s body. Dean holds his breath when he breaches Castiel’s body, his eyes dark and intense as he minds Castiel’s comfort. His mouth quirks when Castiel nods, telling him to proceed.

Castiel feels naked, which is ridiculous because they’ve done this a handful of times already and Dean’s put his mouth in places Castiel never knew pleasure could be found before. Yet this time, tonight, Castiel feels raw, flayed open by the warmth of Dean’s regard. Castiel is a terrible human being for taking advantage of Dean like this – he has no idea how Castiel adores him, or how Castiel will hoard every single one of Dean’s acts of casual kindness.

This is the danger of wanting, and of imagination. With Dean’s cock lighting up Castiel’s body from the inside, Castiel wonders – what if they’d met some mundane way, and Dean pursued him despite his shortcomings, and his efforts bore fruit? What if Dean chose to marry him – what if he _chose Castiel_ – and this is the honeymoon, or their wedding night, and Dean is fully aware and wanting of the depth in Castiel’s heart?

“Hey,” Dean says, slowing down the roll of his hips. He strokes Castiel’s chest, trying to get his attention. “Cas?”

Castiel realizes that he’s covering his face. He’s covering his shame, really, because Dean’s perception isn’t something he’s capable of dealing with at the moment. “What?”

“You want to stop?” Dean asks gently.

“No.” Castiel forces his hands away from his face, reaching up to lace them behind Dean’s neck. “Please don’t stop.”

“It’s okay if you want to stop.”

“It just feels so good.” Castiel swallows past his thick throat. “Talk to me, Dean.”

“What, like dirty talk?”

“Just talk.” Castiel tries a smile, though he’s not sure if managed a convincing one. “I like your voice. It’s very sexy.”

“Yeah?” Dean grins. “What kind of sexy?”

Castiel angles his hips up, trying to get Dean in deeper. “Extremely sexy. Radio host sexy. Top 40 announcer sexy.”

Dean laughs, and joyously starts moving again, his thrusts into Castiel firm and sure. “Not rock star sexy?”

Castiel pants softly at the pleasure rolling up his body from where they’re connected. “I’m not familiar with many rock stars, remember.”

“Well, I’m gonna ruin you for them.” Dean’s still fucking him, but he manages to clear his throat and, in a melodic drawl that curls Castiel’s toes, croons, “Some folks say easy come is easy go, and some folks say but one night ain’t enough for me, girl, hang on tight and don’t let go-o.”

“Wha—” Castiel doesn’t know if his body is shaking from pleasure or laughter. “You can sing?”

“This must be just like living in paradise,” Dean sings, wagging his eyebrows. “And I don’t wanna go ho-ome.”

Castiel breaks into helpless laughter, kicking off a strange little chain reaction where Castiel clamps down around Dean’s cock and Dean fucks him sharply and Castiel almost stops breathing when his prostate gets nailed with almost furious pressure. Castiel ends up hiccupping through an unexpected orgasm, spilling all over his stomach while Dean jacks him off and makes ridiculous noises that he later clarifies is a guitar solo.

“See?” Dean rubs his thumb across Castiel’s cheek as he shakes through the aftershocks. Dean’s smile is as bright as the sun. “This is supposed to be fun.”

Castiel nods, able only to smile helplessly up at Dean. He is amazing. This is why Castiel is in love, really.

* * *

When Castiel wakes up the next morning he knows – without having to check the clock – that he’s overslept again. He groggily chides himself for it, knowing that he’s going to pay for late mornings soon enough, no matter how enjoyable they are at the time. The space next to Castiel in his bed is empty, Dean having apparently decided to let him sleep in again.

First things first. Castiel needs to make a mental list of all the things he needs to do. Planning. Finalizing the badge. Talk to Rachel. Figure out Dean’s cover story.

He should get up, though.

After brushing his teeth and washing off the remains of last night’s activities, Castiel takes the private staircase down to Dean’s room. It’s quiet, the bedroom and bathroom empty, and Castiel feels a flush of petty irritation that Dean went to get breakfast without waiting for him.

It’s only when Castiel’s halfway down the main stairs that he’s struck by a sense of wrongness. He can’t pinpoint its cause and just stands there for a long moment, gazing up at the skylights and then down to the lobby.

The house feels cold. Empty, in some immeasurable way. The vibrations of the air and wall are out of sync.

“Dean?” Castiel calls out.

He completes his descent and goes to the kitchen, where their breakfast is spread out and untouched. Dean’s not there, nor is he in the television room.

Castiel switches the intercom on. “Dean?”

The long gallery, the sitting rooms, the library, the studies – none of them reveal Dean’s whereabouts. Castiel works through the house methodically, noting that Dean’s belongings are still in his bedroom and all the cars are in the garage. Castiel’s reasonably certain that Dean wouldn’t go into town without telling him first or leaving a note to assure him not to worry. Dean knows that Castiel worries. Dean’s well aware of their routine as well, i.e. all activities take place _after_ breakfast.

Castiel goes back to the kitchen, eating some toast while he goes through the drawers. The chef’s knife is slightly wieldy, but it’ll do.

The way he sees it there are two possibilities: either Dean left, or he was taken. If Dean left, then he pretty much warned Castiel that he would yesterday. Dean outright told him that he wanted to go to Sam, and once Castiel confirmed that he wouldn’t follow, Dean could’ve decided it’s best to just go. Perhaps Dean didn’t want to implicate Castiel by telling him he was going before the end of the honeymoon.

The other option is that Dean was taken. This makes less sense to Castiel because the house is warded, but he needs to be sure.

Castiel tries the intercom again, this time pressing the button that connects him to the staff house. “Rachel?”

There’s a pause, and then Rachel’s distorted voice comes through. “ _Yes, sir_?”

“Where’s Elizabeth?” Castiel asks.

“ _She’s in town. Did you want her to get something_?”

“How long has she been gone?”

“ _Uh… I’m not sure, but not that long, I believe._ ”

“Is she taking the normal amount of time to run her errands?”

“ _There’s nothing out of the ordinary I can see. What’s this about, sir?_ ”

Castiel sighs. “Where’s Virgil?”

“ _He’s in the middle of his rounds. He always checks the perimeter in the morning_.”

“I need you to make a call to…” Castiel has to think about this properly. “Who is your contact with the Council? Someone not too senior, but whom you can trust. Never mind, I want you to contact that boy – what’s his name – Kevin? Yes, patch a line through to Kevin Tran, tell him I wish to speak with him and it’s of utmost importance.”

“ _Your Lordship, you know it’s not allowed—”_

“This is to do with Dean’s safety, and you will be present when I take the call.”

A pause. “ _Yes, sir._ ”

It will take Rachel a few minutes to reach Kevin, depending on where he is. Castiel takes the opportunity to return to his room, sprinting up the stairs with his knife at the ready, just in case. Castiel hauls his emergency bag from under the bed, checking that it has the essentials – money, first aid items, a basic change of clothes, some dry food items. The silver bracelet Dean gave him is still on the dresser – Castiel takes it and puts it on.

Ideally, Castiel would prefer that Dean left of his own choice, likely with Elizabeth as his accomplice in making that happen. If this is the case, then the danger Dean’s in is of his own choosing, and Castiel will know how to manage his side of things with Michael. It would’ve been nice if he’d had some warning first, so to have time to concoct a story to be shared with Rachel.

Did Dean already know he was going to leave when they had sex last night? Is that why he was so tender? Castiel shakes his head furiously, trying to dispel that line of thought. There are other vital possibilities to consider at the moment. He first needs to make sure that Dean wasn’t snatched away, as improbable as that might be.

The intercom beeps. “ _Uh… Castiel? The phone line’s not working. I don’t understand._ ”

Castiel takes a deep breath. “Rachel, pay attention. Gather all the staff and meet me in the garage in fifteen minutes.”

“ _What’s happening_?”

“We need to leave the house immediately. Do you understand? Contact Virgil if you can, but your priority is the rest of the staff.”

“ _Yes, sir_ ,” Rachel says, and Castiel can practically see her snapping to attention.

Some people might call Castiel pessimistic, but assuming the worst usually works well in his favor. Maybe the phone’s simply not working, or maybe someone cut the phone line to prevent them from calling out for help. Castiel does, after all, know what it looks like when an important house comes under siege.

In these pessimistic times, Castiel gains little pleasure from being right. When he goes back downstairs, he would’ve much preferred that the human shadow that passes by the lobby’s frosted glass window to be Dean. It would’ve been wonderful if it was Dean, but Dean’s taller than that, and as far as Castiel knows doesn’t wear hats around the house.

Castiel takes cover behind the doorway and gauges his options. Front door is out of the question, so that leaves the laundry door and the door to the herb garden. There’s also the windows – the long gallery has some very tall windows that almost reach the floor, which should be easy to get out of.

Unfortunately when Castiel gets to the long gallery, there’s already someone there. A young woman, an _intruder,_ and although she looks mildly lost her stance is that of a fighter, and her gaze sharpens when she sees Castiel.

“Your Lordship.” She bows, but never takes her eyes off of Castiel. “We don’t mean you any harm.”

Her accent is Continental, which is surprising. Castiel thought that only Michael would be so bold as to take the Joshua House by force this way. This theory had rested on the thought that Michael was offended by their refusing to come to court ahead of schedule, and he’d decided to force their hand, first capturing Dean to make Castiel compliant.

Castiel doesn’t know whether to be relieved that this theory is incorrect.

“Is Dean with you?” Castiel asks.

“Yes,” the young woman says. “He’s outside and would like you to join him. If you’d just come with me—”

Castiel turns and runs, trying his luck by sprinting down the hallway and through the study – there’s _another_ stranger in here, who grabs at Castiel but gets a punch in the face for his troubles. Castiel moves on up the stairs to the library, locking the door behind him and turning to the window speculatively.

“Your Lordship.” Someone bangs on the door, and the voice that calls out is male. “Your Lordship, we apologize for coming in like this, but the situation in Ilchester has changed. If you’d just let us talk to you, we promise no harm will come to you or your people.”

Castiel pushes the window open. The first floor didn’t seem this high up before. He carefully slings one leg over the frame, and gauges how to fold his body.

The window next to Castiel – that’s the next-door study – slams open. The young woman of earlier cranes her head out, yelping when she sees Castiel halfway out the window.

“Castiel!” She seems familiar. “Oh God please don’t jump, Dean will be really pissed if you do.”

“Are you holding Dean?” Castiel says. “If you’ve harmed him…”

“Dean’s fine,” she says. “You can come see for yourself.”

Castiel considers his options. The fall won’t hurt him much if he lands correctly, but beyond that there’s a massive open space with little cover to stay hidden, meaning he has a fair distance to run. That said, Castiel doesn’t think well of people who break into his house. This woman really does look familiar, though.

“Have we met?” Castiel asks.

“Oh! Oh yes, we have, I was at your wed—”

The library door slams open when someone kicks it, and Castiel is surprised for the two seconds it takes to miss his chance to jump. Castiel slashes the air with his knife, cutting one of them when they get too close, but there’s only so many ways he can hold off three people when he’s half-hanging over a window sill. Why would they even need so many people to take the house?

“Don’t hurt him!” one of them barks. “Don’t let him jump!”

Castiel didn’t agree to Michael’s planned marriage in order to become as focal point in an international act of aggression. If they’re kidnapping him, they’re going to be very disappointed.

Someone strikes Castiel to the back of his head, and as he drifts into unconsciousness, his last thoughts are of recognition – the young woman was at his wedding. Jo, wasn’t that her name? Dean said it was, he thinks.

Castiel hopes that Dean is okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Dean sings is David Lee Roth's [Just Like Paradise](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I4qh_9vH1Ww).


End file.
